Only the Lonely
by sherlocked4eva
Summary: Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper are both lonely people, maybe they have more in common than they first realised? Rated M for possible later content
1. Chapter 1

_Dear reader, thank you for taking the time to read my first Sherlock fanfic! I'm a huge fan of the show and a particular obsessive of Mycroft Holmes, hence the focus of my story._

_I am actually a seasoned fanfic writer and have written a lot before, but I wanted to start a new profile on here as part of my new wave of writing. I hope to add more stories in time; I am also working on a Mystrade for you slash fans out there!_

_I love this little idea I've had for this fic but am not honestly sure if it works for other people? Therefore I'm sharing chapter 1 before writing any further to get a taste for whether anyone likes the concept._

_Please, please help me decide the future of this story by reviewing, I would so love to get some comments from fellow readers and writers._

_I sincerely hope you enjoy :)_

* * *

Mycroft awoke abruptly as the mobile phone by his head began to ring. The phone was answered before the second ring had finished; Mycroft had experienced enough disturbed nights during his many years of government service and was by now well attuned to being awoken at all hours. He squinted at the clock by his bedside as he answered the call - 3.08am. This was definitely important; nobody would ring him at this time unless it was urgent.

"Yes?" he said into the receiver. "What's happened?"

"Sorry to wake you up, Sir," came the calm, cool reply. Mycroft immediately recognised the voice as Anthea, his reliable and dependable personal assistant. Anybody needing to get hold of him in hurry would naturally arrange contact through Anthea first.

"I'm afraid it's a Code Red situation sir," Anthea continued. "Highest level alert, verified as genuine and not a hoax or rehearsal of procedure. We've received news that the Foreign Secretary has been shot dead. The crime scene has been sealed, but no action has been taken with regards to anything else. You are needed, Sir, immediately, the Prime minister has requested you to action all the necessary protocol."

Mycroft was out of bed and heading towards the bathroom as he spoke.

"Arrange my car, Anthea," he said as he switched on the light of his gleaming white bathroom suite. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

"Thank you Sir, I'll organise that immediately," Anthea replied, before hanging up the phone.

Mycroft was always prepared for a crisis; his job required him to be on permanent alert. His job was not really a job at all; it was his entire life and everything he did every single day revolved around his work. Mycroft was never off duty. Even for somebody with his seasoned experience of handling problems, Anthea's news had come as quite a shock. The murder of such a high profile politician was going to be colossal news, the media would be absolutely hysterical when they found out. This was going to involve considerable work.

Mycroft was adept at getting ready in exceptional fast speed. He climbed into his shower and spent a quick two minutes soaping himself under the torrent of water. He dried his body quickly, brushed his teeth, arranged his hair and dressed. He selected a deep grey charcoal coloured suit with a white shirt and black tie. He suspected that it would be sensible to have a sombre outfit on for the hours ahead which would no doubt involve some extremely intense conversations. He was ready within ten minutes, and could hear his car pulling up just as he was double checking the contents of his briefcase and tying his shoe laces. He checked his mobile as he locked the front door. Whilst he had been getting ready, emails and text messages had been arriving at an alarming rate. All would be dealt with in due course, Mycroft's primary aim was to address the sudden crisis and tackle everything in a logical order.

It was a long and tedious morning for Mycroft, it wasn't until around 10am that he finally felt some semblance of order has been established and calmness was finally beginning to take control. When he had first arrived at his office, the place was in pandemonium. Mycroft was grateful that amongst the various people going utterly berserk, he had organised and efficient Anthea by his side to help address the situation. Mycroft had made more telephone calls than he could count - to the Prime minister, deputy Prime minister, Home Secretary, Defence Minister, Commissioner of Police, Mayor of London, director of the secret service, the Queen's personal secretary. All London emergency services had been placed on the highest alert and security at government buildings had been increased. Mycroft had written a carefully worded press release to be issued to the media, telling them the barest facts necessary whilst avoiding any speculation or detail as to how serious the situation was. By mid morning he had had enough; his head ached and his jaw was sore from continuous talking. But overall, Mycroft was satisfied that, as usual, he had responded to the problem with ruthless efficiency. All that remained now was to begin the investigation into what had happened to the Foreign Secretary, a task which would include the involvement of his brother.

"I don't care about his manner or methods," the Prime minister had barked down the telephone," get Sherlock down to the morgue to look at the body as quick as you can. We need to catch whoever is behind this and lock them up before anything else comes of it. This is going to make international news, Mycroft, the government has to be seen to be catching the people responsible immediately."

"Leave it to me," replied Mycroft, "as soon as we have a little order amongst the chaos, I'll fetch Sherlock myself and get his take on what has happened."

Mycroft was by now in his car being taken directly to Baker Street. When he arrived at Sherlock's flat, he climbed out of the car slightly wearily, the lack of sleep and frantic morning beginning to catch up on him. He hoped Sherlock would be in one his cooperative moods; Mycroft did not feel in the mood for an argument or game of deductions.

Mycroft entered the flat to find Sherlock sitting at the desk, rifling through a book. John was sat at the kitchen table, typing quickly on his laptop. Upon seeing Mycroft, John raised a hand in greeting and pointed at the kettle.

"Morning Mycroft," John said cheerfully, "cup of coffee?"

"Nice to see you again, John," Mycroft replied politely, smiling slightly as he spoke. He liked John a great deal and privately believed his solid demeanour and sensible approach to life was an excellent influence on his slightly wayward younger brother. "Coffee would be much appreciated, but unfortunately, myself and Sherlock have an urgent situation to discuss."

"And what would that be?" said Sherlock, not bothering to look up from his book. "The tiredness in your voice Mycroft, and your desire for caffeine suggests you've been working extensively this morning, despite it not even being close to lunchtime. That suggests you were dragged into the office much earlier than expected, meaning there is some sort of crisis afoot, probably involving a matter of national and government security, the only circumstances under which someone of your position would be hauled into work at short notice."

Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft and raised his eyebrows quizzically.

"Am I correct?"

"You are indeed, Sherlock," said Mycroft, "well deduced."

"Not really," said Sherlock, "we do have such a thing as a television here, Mycroft. The news of the Foreign Secretary's death wasn't exactly easy to miss."

John gave a stifled chuckle of laughter. Mycroft could not be bothered to pursue the point any further. Under the circumstance, he was content to let Sherlock win this round of banter.

"Will you come?" Mycroft asked.

"Me?" asked Sherlock with mock disbelieve. "Why would you possibly need me?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and glared at his younger brother with impatience.

"I think you know exactly why, dear brother," Mycroft said sternly. "Get your coat please. The mortuary will be expecting us."

Molly hung up her coat and looked around listlessly, her mind still totally disconnected from work. This was her first day back after an eleven day absence; she had never had such a prolonged period of time off before, everything had happened so quickly and now she was back, expected to get on with life but feeling completely unprepared. Mentally and emotionally, she was completely drained.

She entered the office where she compiled all her autopsy reports and found her heart warmed by the sight which greeted her. A small pile of cards, probably around a dozen, a pretty collection of pink and blue and white envelopes. Two bunches of flowers, both beautiful and tied with white ribbons. And a small parcel, presumably a gift, with a card attached.

Sitting at the desk, Molly opened the cards one by one and read each message, every one strengthening her shattered heart ever so slightly.

_Dearest Molly, so sorry to hear of your loss, thinking of you always, Catherine...Dear Molly, deepest sympathies for you at this sad time, lots of love from Greg and all your friends at the yard...To Molly, I was so sad to hear of your loss, we are always here for you whenever you need us, love from John._

Molly smiled to herself. It was times like this that you discovered who your friends really were, when you saw who was prepared to help you in times of great need. Molly was surrounded by death every day; it was something she understood and could deal with even in the most horrific of circumstances. She had already gone through the loss of grandparents, but nothing could have prepared her for the death of her mother.

Molly wondered if the hollow empty pain she was feeling right now would ever subside. At least mum's death had been quick, it had been a blessing really for the terminal diagnosis to come so quickly before the end. For mum to have suffered for months and months under the terrible knowledge that it was never going to get any better would have been unbearable. At least the pain was now gone and the end had been swift.

Molly flicked again through the cards, making a mental note of who she needed to thank and contact.

Nothing from Sherlock.

Molly knew she should not be disappointed, but deep down she was saddened to see no kind words from him. Writing a card would probably not even occur to Sherlock, it simply was not in his nature to think about others in that way. Maybe he didn't know and had not heard yet? Molly knew that was unlikely. If John and Greg had known and sent cards, one of them must have mentioned it to Sherlock. Molly knew she was foolish to keep expecting something from a man who so clearly did not reciprocate her feelings, but trying not to feel as she did was easier said than done.

Molly had not yet had a chance to check what was happening in the mortuary that morning when she heard the swing of the doors and voices entering the building. She walked into the mortuary to find Sherlock and his brother being shown in by an attendant. Her stomach flipped as her eyes met Sherlock's, his tousled black hair and deep eyes weakening her body as they always managed to do.

"Hello Molly," said Sherlock briskly, "haven't seen you in a few days. Been on holiday?"

Molly's insides felt as if they had been crushed. Logically he must have been told of her recent bereavement, had he simply forgotten?

"No," Molly stammered, "I've had some family issues to attend to."

"Hmmmm, sounds boring," replied Sherlock flippantly, his interest now drawn to the corpse laid out on the examination table they were surrounding.

Molly had to bite her lip to stop herself from retorting. Did he have any idea what he was saying? She suddenly noticed that the other Holmes brother was looking at her in a questioning manner, his eyebrows raised as if trying to work out the problem before him. She turned away feeling embarrassed, although slightly comforted that at least one person present seemed aware that all was not right.

"So what so far can you tell us about the murder of our dear political friend here?" asked Sherlock, his eyes scanning quickly over the body of the poor dead man on the table.

"Er, let me just look," said Molly, quickly flicking through the notes in front of her. She was completely unprepared and had not read any of the report done by the preliminary examiner. Her eyes scanned the notes urgently, hoping that key facts would jump out at her, but she could not seem to focus on the information. Her chest began to tighten with stress as she heard Sherlock sighing impatiently.

"Come on, Molly," he said abruptly, "haven't you got anything to help us out?"

"Sorry Sherlock," she mumbled, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment, "I've only just got in and haven't looked though this properly. Do we know the victim's name yet?"

There was an awkward silence as Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes exchanged glances. Molly could clearly see that she had said something wrong.

"Good Lord Molly, I though even you might recognise one of our most important cabinet ministers," Sherlock scoffed mockingly. His eye was suddenly drawn to a mark of the victim's neck.

"Perhaps you need to continue that holiday, I'm not sure a break from work has done you much good," Sherlock said as he studied the patch of skin that had caught his interest.

Molly's eyes filled with tears. She had to get away from them both before she completely embarrassed herself.

"I'll just..." she began, before realising that Sherlock was not even listening to her. So what was new? When did Sherlock ever have any interest in anything she had to say?

Molly turned and walked quickly to the office, managing to close the door just before bursting into tears. She was used to Sherlock's rude manner, and normally was able to tolerate him. But not today, not when she was at her most emotionally vulnerable. She sobbed quietly into her hands, more than anything hating herself for loving a man who gave her nothing in return. She deserved this pain, it was her punishment for behaving like a compete fool in the presence of someone who was far too good for her.

Molly was not sure how many minutes passed before the door to the office suddenly opened. She looked up from the desk to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway.

"Thank you Miss Hooper for your time," he said, "could you please make sure..."

He stopped as he noticed her tear-stained face and pink eyes. Molly wiped a tissue quickly down both cheeks, wishing he had not found her in this state.

"Is everything alright?" Mycroft enquired.

Molly did not even have the emotional strength to lie to him, despite him being a virtual stranger. Never in her life had she felt more vulnerable and alone.

"Is there any reason why your brother is always so horrible? Is he actually incapable of ever being kind to somebody?" Molly said, breathless sobs stilting her speech.

She looked at Mycroft. He did not even react, let alone reply. He was the most emotionless person Molly had ever met. It was as if he were incapable of reacting to anything.

"I'm not stupid," Molly continued, "I know Sherlock doesn't give a toss about me, but I thought under the circumstances he might have perhaps tried to make the effort to be nice."

Mycroft shifted awkwardly to lean himself against the wall. He was not used to situations like this, outbursts of female emotion was something he rarely encountered. The women he came across at work were all very similar to himself - calm, emotionless, non-responsive, icy cold. That was probably why he had employed them. Tears and upsets about men was not something he witnessed in his female staff.

"I would not worry yourself too much about Sherlock, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said monotonously, "being sensitive is not exactly his greatest skill."

"So what about these great skills of observation he is supposed to possess, Mr. Holmes?" demanded Molly, her upset suddenly being tempered with anger. "Can he not even see how upset I am at the moment?"

A fresh wave of tears threatened to overwhelm her, and Molly turned away to hide her face.

"My mum has just died, Mr. Holmes," she sobbed, "I buried her only two days ago. And Sherlock thinks that was my holiday? He has no idea of what I'm feeling right now."

Mycroft did not say a word as she cried steadily, tears soaking into the tissue pressed against her face. When she began to calm, he responded.

"Sorry to hear that, Miss Hooper," he said softly, his voice still cold but a slight gentleness entering his tone.

Molly turned to look at him. It seemed suddenly very odd to be pouring her heart out to a man who was basically a completely stranger. She had met him once before, possibly twice, but knew absolutely nothing about him.

"How do you stand him?" Molly asked. "You're his brother but he seems to have no ability to care about anyone?"

Mycroft gave Molly an ironic smile.

"Sherlock and I have never exactly indulged in discussing our personal feelings," Mycroft said, "If I wanted sympathy or a kindly word, Sherlock is not the person I would go to."

"So who do you go to, when you need sympathy and kindness?" Molly asked.

Mycroft's eyes bored into hers. "I look after myself, Miss Hooper," he said crisply.

What a strange and dysfunctional pair of men, Molly thought to herself. She stepped forward, closer to Mycroft, and looked at him properly for the first time ever. In this moment of sadness she suddenly felt unexpectedly close to him. He was lonely and isolated just like her, perhaps they had more in common than she had ever realised.

It was hard to believe he and Sherlock were brothers; physically they were so different. Whilst Sherlock seemed youthful with his full head of dark hair and nervous energy, his brother seemed much older and more sedate, his eyes piercing and his manner rigidly composed. There was something very mysterious about him, Molly decided, every feeling and emotion he possessed locked away behind an icy exterior. Who was this man really?

Mycroft, aware of Molly's studying eyes, gave her the briefest of sympathetic smiles.

"I am sorry about your mother, Miss Hooper," he said, "and I'm sorry if Sherlock and I have caused you any upset. I can assure you it was never my intention to intrude on your grief."

Molly's sadness started to drain as quickly as it had appeared. It did not take much to strengthen her spirits, a little kindness and a few soft words were all she needed.

"Thank you," she replied, before stopping with unexpected surprise. Amongst the torrent of emotions raging in her body, the most unexpected feeling was stirring deep within her. She looked again at Mycroft Holmes with new appraising eyes. Whilst he was completely different from Sherlock, there was no denying his elegant appearance and handsome features.

Molly took a step towards him, bringing her body into close proximity with his. Nothing escaped the notice of Mycroft; he frowned questioningly at her, asking wordlessly what she was doing.

Molly was not thinking very clearly, but she knew in that moment what she wanted to do. With a sudden bold decisiveness, she stepped forward once again and moved her face to meet Mycroft's, their lips brushing very briefly before he withdrew.

"I don't think, Miss Hooper, that this is a very sensible idea," he said firmly, his face serious and his jaw determined.

Molly did not need to be told, she knew full well that this was not a sensible idea. Kissing the brother of her long-term secret love, in a moment of vulnerability, was utter madness, but the raging fire in her stomach could not resist him.

Molly pressed herself forward again, finding his lips, and kissing his closed mouth with force. She breathed in the scent of his body, the natural aroma of masculinity and musk. She kissed him again, willing a response, gently pressing her body against his.

She detected just the tiniest hint of resistance; his lips parting marginally, allowing just a taste of the warmth that lay beyond his cold exterior. Molly kissed Mycroft more urgently now, her mind and body desperate for just the tiniest hint of affection. Her boldness was rewarded ever so slightly; his mouth began to respond and open, enough to allow her access. With lust pounding in her veins, Molly slid her tongue into Mycroft's mouth, kissing him deeply, her hands shaking as she ran them roughly across his chest, up his arms and down his back. She pushed herself against him, pressing her breasts firmly into his torso, willing him desperately to take her in his arms and respond with the same degree of physical passion.

The door to the office suddenly opened and Mycroft and Molly parted as if electrocuted. Sherlock was in the door, his eyes focused on something in his hand.

"We've got plenty to be working with here, Mycroft" he said excitedly, "let's get back to Baker Street."

"Certainly," Mycroft replied curtly, seemingly totally unruffled by the unexpected advances of Molly Hooper.

Mycroft turned to look at Molly, although this time he did not meet her eyes.

"As I was saying, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, "If you could forward me a full autopsy report as soon as it is prepared I would be most grateful."

Without another word he turned on his heel and left, taking Sherlock with him, leaving behind Molly who was feeling more confused and bewildered than ever.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello everyone and thank you so much to everyone who has chosen to follow this story, and those who have submitted reviews. My apologies for the slow update, I have a very demanding job and sadly cannot devote as much time as I would like to regular writing!_

_I really hope you all enjoy part 2, although I cannot promise super-quick updates, part 3 is on its way. As always, reviews mean the world so please, please spare a moment to let me know what you think._

* * *

The journey back to Baker Street was undertaken in silence, both brothers completely lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock was excited, the fire of curiosity dancing wildly in his stomach. A political assassination was not of particular interest to him, but viewing the body had been illuminating. Something told him that they were about to embark on a case of unexpected complexity and fascination. He was so wrapped up in his own ponderings that he barely even noticed that Mycroft was unusually quiet.

Mycroft was an expert at maintaining an exterior facade of icy cool, regardless of how he felt inside. He was grateful for that skill at the present moment, as he felt distinctly unruffled and did not feel inclined to be probed by Sherlock. He and his brother were not in the habit of discussing their personal feelings, but Sherlock was always ready to scrutinise him if he believed there was something interesting to hear. Mycroft's unexpected encounter with Molly had left him uncharacteristically lost for words. Silly girl must have been in a bad state to act so stupidly, throwing herself at someone she barely knew. But Mycroft was more disturbed by his own response; why had he not pushed the girl away instantly? Fooling around with women was most certainly not his style. In fact, very few women every interested him in the slightest. Mycroft's life was far too busy and his position far too important to waste time fussing about women. It never ceased to amaze Mycroft over the years how many people he had seen throw away promising careers due to a moment of foolishness with a girl. When these cases occurred, Mycroft did not feel sympathy for these men, nor did he relish gleefully over their weakness. He felt nothing except scorn for their pathetic lack of self- control and their willingness to risk everything for a casual dalliance.

Mycroft stared out of the car window, gazing vaguely at the passing sights as he remained deep in thought. He could still feel the warmth on his face where Molly's lips had made contact. He could still sense on his body where Molly's urgent and desiring limbs had pressed against him, her tiny grasping hands touching him and making his skin tingle. What was unnerving Mycroft more than anything was the fact that he had responded to her; he had actually enjoyed those unexpected few seconds of passion. He had made a decision many years ago that personal relationships brought nothing but problems, exposing a person's vulnerabilities and weakening their power. He had lived by this ethos for so long that it was a great shock to suddenly have his most private and sensual side so suddenly reawakened.

"What's wrong with you?" A sudden voice asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Mycroft had almost forgotten Sherlock was there. He turned and met his brother's questioning stare with a steely gaze.

"Nothing," Mycroft replied politely, "just a little preoccupied, a lot of work still to do. Now, shall we discuss the body?"

* * *

Exactly one week later, Mycroft was lying in his bed, a humid night rendering him deeply uncomfortable. He eventually fell into a shallow, disturbed sleep, the stifling air around him making it difficult to get comfortable. Through the thick air came the sound of a sharp ring: Mycroft's mobile phone sprang into life and forced him into full wakefulness. Mycroft glanced irritably at the clock. 2.17am.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath as he snapped the phone open. "Yes? Who is it?"

"Sorry to wake you, sir," came the voice of an apologetic Anthea, who had worked for Mycroft long enough to recognise when he was irritated, "but it's happened again. Another assassination."

Mycroft felt as if his stomach had dropped out of his body. Any last dregs of sleepiness were gone in an instant.

"Who?" He asked urgently.

"The Defence Minister, sir," replied Anthea, her voice unusually grave, "and we've received communication from someone claiming responsibility. The content of the email we've been sent is very troubling."

Mycroft was out of bed and walking to the bathroom as he spoke, not wanting to waste a second.

"Send my..." He began, before Anthea interrupted.

"The car is already on its way, sir," Anthea said, "I was sure you would want to be here urgently."

"Thank you," Mycroft said politely, before hanging up the phone and beginning to get ready as quickly possible. Two political assassinations in one week, exactly seven days apart, both important cabinet ministers. Mycroft knew this was serious, most certainly one of the most serious problems it was likely he had ever faced. This had to be stopped immediately.

The rest of the morning passed with an especially irritating air of déjà vu. Telephone calls, press releases, statements, security checks. With every job Mycroft ticked off his list, he could not help feeling annoyed that he had done all this before. This feeling was only compounded when he found himself at 9.15am in a taxi, Sherlock by his side, heading towards the mortuary.

"You never did tell me what you spotted on the body we examined last week, Sherlock," Mycroft said slightly irritably.

"That's because I wasn't ready to share it with you," replied Sherlock, his blasé manner annoying Mycroft even more.

"This is not a game, Sherlock," snapped Mycroft, "if you have information, you are duty bound to tell me!"

"Patience, Mycroft," Sherlock replied softly, a superior smile lurking around his lips, "once we view today's corpse, I'll have a better idea of what I saw last week means. Hopefully Molly might be a little more help to us this time."

"Hmmm, yes," replied Mycroft vaguely, the mention of Molly throwing his focus entirely. In the frantic rush of the morning, he had forgotten what else a trip to the mortuary meant, something he was certainly not going to confide in Sherlock. He felt slightly uneasy at seeing Molly Hooper again. It was not that Mycroft was nervous or was embarrassed around her; the mere thought of that was ridiculous. Mycroft knew that he was more than capable of handling anybody, including emotionally volatile girls who did silly things when upset. What Mycroft was more perturbed by was his own personal feelings. He was so used to being totally in control that he found it very uncomfortable to experience sensations that were unfamiliar to him. However, forewarned was forearmed and Mycroft was sure that such a strange turn of events was unlikely to happen again.

* * *

Molly was in a state of panic when she realised Sherlock and his brother were on their way to the mortuary. She had been plagued with embarrassment ever since their last visit, and the thought of having to face Mycroft Holmes again was mortifying. What on earth had possessed her? Molly was not afraid of harmless flirting, but to throw herself into the arms of a complete stranger was so unlike her. And of all people to choose, she had gone for Sherlock's older brother, the brother of the man she had wanted for years. Molly had no idea what Mycroft did for a living, but it struck her that he was quite important. So not just Sherlock's brother, but a high ranking official as well. She wanted to curl up and die every time she thought about it.

Molly wondered what the best thing to do was. She was a person who hated the tension of an atmosphere and the stress of knowing what another person was thinking. Perhaps if she was brave and simply tackled the problem head-on and apologised to Mycroft for her behaviour, the air would be cleared and it could be forgotten about. But in reality, Molly knew it was unlikely she could do this. Mycroft Holmes was far too imposing and ever so slightly intimidating. Molly decided the best thing to do was to behave normally and pretend nothing had happened. She suspected that it was very unlikely Mycroft himself would bring it up, so if she simply kept quiet, they could both avoid an embarrassing situation.

The doors banged open and Molly felt her face turn crimson as both Holmes brothers entered the mortuary. Sherlock always made her feel giddy, but now she had the added problem of his brother being present as well. Molly smiled politely, carefully avoiding looking directly at Mycroft.

"Good morning Sherlock, good morning Mr. Holmes," she said with exaggerated politeness, "here to see your latest victim?"

"Certainly am, Molly," replied Sherlock, his quick eyes already darting over the corpse that lay before them, his interest in any further conversation immediately evaporating.

Molly could see there was no point continuing to speak as Sherlock was now engrossed in the body. She watched as he lowered his head and began to study the corpse, examining the fingers and hair of the victim intently. Molly took a step back and found herself standing next to Mycroft, his body bolt upright in a stiff posture. Molly felt the warmth in her cheeks beginning to rise again, knowing and feeling that Mycroft was so close to her. She wondered for a moment if their arms were touching, but a discreet glance showed her that this was not the case; if was as if Mycroft's body was glowing with heat, the very aura of his figure next to hers making her highly aware of his presence.

Molly noticed that Mycroft had not spoken to her at all. She wondered if he had decided to adopt the same tactic of pretending that absolutely nothing had happened. She could not help but also wonder what he was thinking, and what opinion he really had of her. It seemed likely that he thought of her as an idiot, a strange and desperate woman who acted irrationally. Molly tried to discreetly look at him out of the corner of her eye, to try and gauge what Mycroft was thinking. But his face and posture were completely expressionless, not a single emotion visible or any obvious feeling displayed. Interesting case for a psychologist, Molly thought to herself. This man was clearly deeply emotionally repressed, or else unusually adept at hiding his feelings.

"Molly?" Sherlock unexpectedly asked, causing her to jump ever so slightly where she stood. The tiny movement caused her arm to brush against Mycroft's, a little spark of electricity passing between them.

"Yes?" She asked, feeling flustered.

"Could you possibly fetch the autopsy notes from last week? The ones done on the Foreign Secretary? I want to compare a few points."

"Of course, Sherlock," Molly replied, turning briskly and walking towards the office where all the autopsy reports were kept. It was a relief to escape the silent, imposing figure of Mycroft, his every thought a deep and silent secret.

Molly entered the office, walked to the filing cabinet and began to quickly skim her fingers through the papers, looking for the right file. She was just laying her hands on the correct document, when the office door opened. She turned to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, his stony face now displaying a tight smile.

"Sorry to pressurise you Miss. Hooper," he said politely, "but according to Sherlock, if he doesn't see the information he needs immediately, he will be unable to solve this case. I've no doubt my brother is exaggerating slightly, but under the circumstances, I'm not willing to take the risk."

Molly handed over the file, her hands shaking nervously.

"That's everything he needs, Mr. Holmes," she said shakily.

Mycroft took the file sharply and returned to the mortuary to hand the documents to Sherlock. Molly was about to heave a sigh of relief before her stomach did a flip; Mycroft was returning to the office. He had got what he came to fetch, what did he want now? Mycroft re-entered the office, pushing the door closed as he entered. Molly found herself taking a step backwards, his very presence making her feel deeply intimidated. He was quite tall but slender, and yet he seems to fill the entire room. Molly felt as if his presence had managed to infiltrate every cornered of the office.

"Thank you again for all your help, Miss. Hooper," Mycroft said politely, "I can assure you that every assistance at this time is greatly appreciated."

"It's not a problem," Molly replied, aware that her voice was trembling slightly. She looked up at him, meeting his cool expressionless eyes for the first time that day. He was more handsome than she had given him credit for, his sharp cheekbones and elegant posture giving him a glowing aura of attractiveness. Molly could not stand the tension between them anymore, she had to say something.

"Mr. Holmes," she burst out, her tone urgent, "I really feel I must apologise to you."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Whatever for?" he asked, making Molly want to scream. He must surely know exactly way tsetse was referring to.

"I want to apologise for the way I behaved last time you were here," Molly continued, looking at the floor in embarrassment, "I must have put you in the most awkward situation, and I'm really sorry."

There was an awkward silence as Molly's words reminded them both of the brief moment of passion they had shared only one week ago. It was Mycroft who broke the peace.

"You have no need to apologise, Miss. Hooper," he said softly, "I appreciate under the circumstances that you were feeling vulnerable, it really is nothing to be ashamed of."

Molly was embarrassed to find her eyes filling with tears again. She looked up at Mycroft, hoping he might understand.

"It was really wrong of me to put you in that situation," she choked, trying to smother her tears, "but it's so hard when you feel so terribly lonely."

Mycroft nodded slowly, the hard ice in his eyes softening slightly.

"You're right," he replied, his voice now distant and gentle, "loneliness can be a very difficult burden to carry."

Molly and Mycroft looked at each other, their eyes fixing on the other, both acutely aware of the shared emotions they were experiencing. Molly felt as if she were in a daze as she stepped forward and, despite her intelligence and logic telling her not to do what she was about to do, pressing her body against Mycroft's yet again. Their lips met and they began to kiss each other passionately, their mouths open and their tongues touching. Molly still sensed a stiffness and resistance in Mycroft's body, but this time, something had definitely changed between them. As she kissed him again and again, she felt his warm lips responding, hungry with the need to feel the love and companionship.

The kiss of a man who was as lonely as Molly.


	3. Chapter 3

Thankyou once again for reading my story, which is slowly but surely developing! Please, please be kind enough to review or share a few thoughts, it means the world to me to get any comments from others.

hope you enjoy :)

* * *

"You haven't shown me the email yet."

"What?" Asked Mycroft, not having a clue what Sherlock was talking about.

Sherlock clicked his tongue impatiently.

"The email sent claiming responsibility for these deaths," he said, giving Mycroft an annoyed glare. "What is the matter with you? I thought you wanted this case solved?"

"Sorry," Mycroft muttered vaguely, searching his pockets for the piece of paper. He really needed to focus and pull himself together before Sherlock really began to try and find out what was on his mind. Once Sherlock made up his mind to discover something, there was no stopping him. Mycroft wished he had a mirror that he could discreetly glance into it as he felt distinctly paranoid that some of Molly's lipstick was still present on his face. It seemed unlikely as Sherlock would surely have noticed instantly, but Mycroft still would have felt happier if he were sure.

Sherlock read the short email, narrowing his eyes as he studied every word.

"So according to this assassin, he's going to kill a high profile politician every week until his demands are met" Sherlock said.

"Apparently that is his intention, yes," said Mycroft, his attention now fully focused on the problem at hand.

" And what are his demands?"

"I don't know. He has not told us yet."

Sherlock frowned. There was something odd about this case. Why asked for your demands to be met if you had not revealed what they were?

"You still haven't told me what was so interesting about those bodies," said Mycroft, studying Sherlock's inquisitive face.

"Oh, that," said Sherlock casually, "I thought you'd have noticed yourself. Both victims have contusion marks of the neck. Both of them were strangled, probably by some form of fabric, like a tie or pair of tights."

"But they were both shot dead," said Mycroft feeling confused.

"Precisely," said Sherlock, "our killer strangles his victims first, but not enough to kill them. Perhaps it's just to subdue them, or maybe he enjoys seeing their fear. Either way, when he has had enough of strangling them, he shoots them through the head. Instant death. These are close range execution style killings, not done from a distance but in person, using a small handheld pistol".

"So how does this help us catch him?" Asked Mycroft.

"Well for one thing it tells us a lot about the access he is able to gain," explained Sherlock, "were either of the houses broken into?"

"No".

"No signs of forced entry?"

"No".

Sherlock nodded.

"So he is able to gain access to the home of a high ranking politician in the middle of the night without using force. Therefore, he must either know them, or he is an authority figure, or he is extremely persuasive."

"Or he simply knocks on the door and puts a gun to their head when they answer," suggested Mycroft.

"Possibly, but unlikely," replied Sherlock, "these victims would not simply open their door to anyone in the middle of the night. Hence why he must belong to one of the categories I just mentioned."

There was silence in the car as both brothers found themselves momentarily lost in thought, trying to picture who the mystery assassin might be. The silence was broken by an alert sounding of Mycroft's mobile. Mycroft took the phone out of his pocket with little enthusiasm, not in the mood for more problems. He stared at the tiny screen passively for a few seconds before his eyes widened and he nudged Sherlock to get his attention.

"The killer has made contact again," he explained, "Anthea just forwarded the email to me. It's a photograph this time, no text."

Mycroft turned the phone of its side in order to get a landscape view of the picture. Both he and Sherlock brought their heads closer together as they studied the tiny image. It was a photograph of a large group of people that Sherlock and Mycroft both recognised instantly as the cabinet ministers and key government officials. The picture must have been taken without the knowledge of those captured as it was a very informal image, some people in the photograph talking or smiling, another rifling through a handbag, a few not even looking at the camera. This was certainly not an official photograph. More disturbingly evident was the alterations that had been made to the picture. Two male figures were almost totally obscured by ugly red crosses, obliterating them from recognition. Sherlock could not make out their faces, but he was prepared to gamble on the fact that these men were the two murder victims he had encountered over the past week. A third figure at the back looked strangely out of proportion, an oddly large head on top of a barely visible body, like a phantom face floating amongst the crowd. Mycroft and Sherlock both stared solemnly at the evil grinning face that looked back out at them, a face they both knew well.

"Moriarty" muttered Mycroft, "so he's behind all this?"

Sherlock did not answer, but continued to stare at the picture. He should have guessed that the only person who could combine brutal murder with macabre playful games was Moriarty.

"So it seems," Sherlock said.

A few moments later they were outside Mycroft's office, having agreed to drop him off first before the car took Sherlock back to Baker Street.

"Forward me that email would you?" Sherlock asked as Mycroft stepped out of the car, "I want to look at the picture again".

Mycroft quickly tapped a few buttons of his phone and then nodded at Sherlock.

"Done," he said stiffly, "what are you looking for?"

"A clue," replied Sherlock mysteriously before signalling to the driver to go, leaving Mycroft pondering once again what his younger brother was thinking.

* * *

When Sherlock returned home, he lay flat on his bed and closed his eyes, conjuring up the strange photograph in his mind's eye. Think, he willed himself, what is he trying to tell me?

Sherlock had the strangest feeling that he had seen this photograph before, but he could not place when or where. Leave that to one side for the moment, he thought. Focus on the important questions.

Why? Why had Moriarty sent the photograph? And why that particular photograph? There were dozens he could have chosen, why that one?

Sherlock thought for a few more moments but no answers came. Ok, try something else, he thought. So he wants to brag about the two men he has executed, but why put himself in the photograph as well? Surely the longer he remained anonymous, the harder it would be to catch him? Why reveal his identity so soon?

Sherlock wondered if it was simply arrogance, that Moriarty just could not wait to reveal to the world that he was behind these assassinations. But that did not entirely make sense. In the past, Moriarty had only revealed himself when the time was absolutely right and with complete conviction as to why he was doing it. As evil as he was, he was not foolish enough to reveal himself simply for the fun of seeing the reaction.

No, this problem still boiled down to the why. Why send this photograph?

Sherlock could feel himself beginning to get impatient. He had all the right questions but could not quite see the corresponding answer. Why had Moriarty sent this photograph to him?

Of course that was not quite true, Sherlock reminded himself, the photo had not been sent to him, it had been sent to Mycroft.

Mycroft.

Sherlock felt as it lightening had suddenly torn through his brain. He lept off his bed as quickly as he could, rushing out of the bedroom and into the living area. John was watching television as he tapped away on the laptop that was balanced on his knees. Before John could utter a word, Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa and grabbed the computer.

"In case you did not notice Sherlock, I was actually using that!" Said John in exasperation, trying and failing to grab it.

Sherlock did not even respond, he had not even heard John's protests. Sherlock quickly accessed his email account, clicking on the image that Mycroft has forwarded from his phone.

"Why would he send that picture to Mycroft?" Sherlock asked as the image appeared on the screen.

"Why are you asking me?" John said, "I don't even know what you are talking about!"

Sherlock began to zoom in on the photograph, focusing all his attention of the figure upon which Moriarty's head had been superimposed.

"Why would he do this?" Sherlock continued, "this is more than about owning up to the murders. Why has he put his head on this person? Because he want to be that person, John! Moriarty has told us his demands, even though we didn't see it at first. He wants to eliminate this person and take away everything that he controls."

John was not entirely sure he was following what was going on, but he was no longer angry. Clearly something serious was developing.

"So who is this person?" John asked jabbing his finger at the figure on the screen who was slowly becoming bigger as Sherlock zoomed in on him, "who is Moriarty hoping to destroy?"

Sherlock finally spotted the evidence he had been looking for and sat back, gaping in awe at the screen. John squinted at the computer to see that Sherlock had managed to zoom in on the man's hand, one of the few parts of his body which was visible amongst the crowd. It was a slim pale right hand which bore a plain silver ring on the fourth finger.

"That's Mycroft," Sherlock said, "that's why Moriarty sent the photo to him".

"That man in the picture is Mycroft?" Asked John, never having studied Mycroft's hands closely enough to identify him from the image. "So what does that mean?"

"It means Mycroft is in danger," Sherlock said seriously, "we have to go now."

* * *

Mycroft walked through his front door feeling as if his body was made of lead. He was exhausted. He had been working solidly since arriving in the office at 3am. It was now 6pm and his aching body could not take anymore. He wearily dragged himself up the stairs, planning to have a hot bath and a few whiskeys before retiring to bed. He was too tired to eat, not in the mood for any leisure time. Once again his day had consisted of nothing except work.

As he entered his bedroom, Mycroft had to remind himself that this was not entirely true. There had been those few moments with Molly which had broken up the neverending avalanche of work. Mycroft sat on his bed and allowed his mind to replay those unexpected few minutes. Was it really only this morning that he had been with her? It felt like a lifetime ago. He replayed every second on her kiss in his mind and felt a warm glow radiating through his skin.

Mycroft looked around his bedroom, suddenly acutely aware of the emptiness in his life. He wondered what Molly was doing now, whether she was relaxing in a warm comfortable little home with an attentive boyfriend by her side. Mycroft could suddenly picture her very clearly, her pretty warm little face and attractive smile. For one crazy moment Mycroft considered trying to contact her, just to see if his imagination was anything like the truth. Luckily he dismissed this idea instantly. What on earth was he thinking? One meaningless kiss and he was contemplating all kinds of stupid thoughts. Although, of course, it had actually been two kisses, Mycroft reminded himself, recalling the events of the following week. Were they both meaningless? Or has Molly's feelings developed in the week that had passed between them?

Mycroft's attention was suddenly distracted by a noise, a tiny creak from somewhere in the room. He looked around curiously, wondering what has caused it, but no source for the noise seemed obviously. Mycroft sighed, stood up from the bed and removed his suit jacket. It was not very often that any unusual noises were emitted from his quiet bedroom, which only he had entered for more years than he could even remember. When was the last time he had had another person in his bedroom with him?

Mycroft impatiently unbuttoned and removed his waistcoat. He was too tired for all these strange and random thoughts. He needed to put Molly Hooper out of his mind and get some rest. He kicked off his shoes and removed his tie, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt as he did so. Mycroft suddenly noticed how dim the room was, the drawn curtains not allowing in the last of the summer evening light. Mycroft walked over to the drawn curtains and flung them open in one firm pull. Instead of staring at the glass of the window, Mycroft found himself staring into the eyes of a figure which until then had been hidden behind the curtains, a figure that was so unexpected that Mycroft did not even have time to react.

Moriarty.

Mycroft had barely even processed the fact that Moriarty had somehow broken into his bedroom before the man pounced from his position behind the curtains, emitting a guttural roar as he grabbed Mycroft by the throat.

Moriarty had the advantage of suprise and it worked magnificently. The force of Moriarty's grasp forced Mycroft to his knees as he stumbled helplessly to try and remain on his feet. Mycroft's hands flew upwards to try and defend himself but it was too late; Moriarty had managed to deftly wrap a fabric rope around Mycroft's neck and was now standing behind him, pulling hard on the ends.

Oh God, thought Mycroft as the world around him went black and the air was cut-off to his lungs. He's going to kill me, I've got to fight, I cannot let him win.

For some inexplicably reason, Molly Hooper danced in front of Mycroft's eyes.

I want to kiss her again, Mycroft thought wildly as he viciously dug his elbow hard into Moriarty's stomach. It worked; Moriarty released his grip in the rope, his hands flying to the painful spot on his stomach. Mycroft tried to stumble away but his oxygen starved limbs were not quick enough. Moriarty grabbed him again before he had time to move any further, enraged that Mycroft had tried to fight back. He grabbed aggressively at Mycroft's chin, his other hand gripping a handful of his hair as he dragged him forcefully by his head towards the bed. Moriarty managed to throw Mycroft onto the bed before quickly climbing on top of him and straddling him, pinning down the flailing arms and legs which were frantically trying to lash out. The rope was around Mycroft's neck again but this time, Mycroft knew that Moriarty had the advantage. He pressed down with all his strength, pulling the rope ends with such force that beads of sweat began to trickle down his temples. Mycroft clawed helplessly at the rope which was slicing the delicate skin of he throat, trying desperately to find a loose place where he could slip his fingers beneath and try to protect his bruised and battered neck. But it was no good; the rope was sunk deep into his flesh, impossible to prise off.

As black spots began to dance over his eyes and his strength evaporated, Mycroft knew suddenly that he was going to die. He was helpless, his crushed throat could not take in any oxygen and his weakened hands could only paw pathetically at the cruel rope that was throttling the life out of him. If only there was something he could do, some final brilliant plan to save his own life. But Mycroft knew it was too late. His hands continued to flap weakly against the evil hands of the man that was killing him, but Mycroft's vision was going and the blackness was swallowing him up. Unconsciousness swept over Mycroft's body and he went completely limp, every inch of his being starved of oxygen, no fight physically possibly anymore.

* * *

Sherlock and John pounded up the front path to the door. John was about to put his shoulder to it and try breaking down the sturdy wood before Sherlock stopped him, producing a key from his coat pocket.

"Not often I've ever needed this," he said as he unlocked the door, allowing both men to enter the house.

"Mycroft!" Yelled John loudly. He was not sure why but he sensed instinctively that Mycroft was in danger and needed immediate help. A creaking noise from the floor above caught John's sharp hearing and he instantly pounded his way up the stairs, Sherlock following. They both headed straight for Mycroft's bedroom but before they could enter, the door was flung violently into their faces, almost knocking John to the ground.

Moriarty sprung from the room like a wild animal, an evil grin spread over his red and sweaty face. He caught Sherlock's gaze and did a mocking impression of a person crying, wiping pretend tears away from his eyes.

"Boo hoo, poor Sherlock's big brother," he teased in a horrible child-like chant, "be sure to invite me to the funeral, won't you?"

He took off down the stairs. Sherlock took a few steps to chase after him, but stopped upon hearing John's voice from the bedroom.

"Sherlock, I need your help!" He cried urgently.

Sherlock paused for a split second. Moriarty was going to get away. The doubt only lingered for a moment; Sherlock knew what was of greater importance.

He turned and ran into the bedroom, he breath taken away when he saw the sight before him. Mycroft was laid out on the bed, his normally immaculate shirt creased and crumpled. His face was a deathly white, his eyes were shut and an angry circle of raw red skin encircled his neck. John was tilting Mycroft's head back and firmly parting his blue-tinted lips.

"He's not breathing," John said decisively and calmly. Sherlock recognised this voice, this was John in his role of a doctor. He was not panicking, he knew exactly what had to be done.

"Phone an ambulance," John ordered, "I'll start resuscitation. If my arms get tired I'll need you to help".

Sherlock found him mobile and called for help, watching as John pressed his own lips firmly around Mycroft's and began to breathe into his mouth. After a few breaths he began to pump Mycroft's chest, counting each one as he tried to get the heart started again.

Sherlock finished the call and watched as John continued to alternate between Mycroft's mouth and chest. Three times he completed the cycle. Then a fourth, and then a fifth.

Nothing's happening, thought Sherlock, why is nothing happening?

After the sixth attempt John turned to Sherlock who was alarmed to see the urgency in his eyes.

"I need your help," he said breathlessly, "I'll concentrate on getting him breathing, you do the heart massage".

Sherlock clambered onto the bed and waited for John's signal to begin pumping Mycroft's chest. Sherlock looked down at his brother's lifeless face, no flicker of anything registering across his features. Surely he couldn't be dead? As difficult as Sherlock found his older brother, the realisation that he may be beyond saving was a thought which made his blood run cold.

After breathing into Mycroft's mouth again, John took the man's pulse and stopped, his face unusually grave.

"I'm not sure if we can continue, Sherlock," John said gently, trying to prepare him for the worse.

Sherlock shook his head obstinately.

"We have to keep trying," he said firmly, "at least until the ambulance gets here".

John did not look convinced but they continued, trying once and then a further two times to get Mycroft breathing again. It was on their fourth attempt that the last thing John expected actually happened; Mycroft suddenly gave an almighty splutter, coughing into John's mouth, who pulled away in shock. Mycroft took a gulp of air and rolled onto his side, panting painfully as his starved lungs cried out for oxygen. A pink hue came back into his cheeks and his eyes began to water uncontrollably, spilling down his cheeks and onto the sore skin on his neck.

"Bloody hell," exclaimed John, barely believing what he was seeing, "I really thought that was the end of him".

John turned to see Sherlock's reaction and was suprised to see him leaving the room.

"Where are you going?" He called after him in confusion.

"Well, Mycroft's alright now, isn't he?" Said Sherlock in a matter-of-fact tone, "I can hear the ambulance at the door so I might as well get onto finding Moriarty. I'll be at the mortuary if you need me."

"Oh yes, very nice Sherlock!" John shouted angrily at the footsteps which dashed down the stairs and out of the front door, "don't concern yourself with the fact that your brother just nearly died!"

John turned his attentions back to Mycroft who was now trying to sit up, although he was clearly in pain. John put his arm gently around the man's back and eased him into a half sitting, half lying position.

"Take it easy, Mycroft," John said gently, "try and breathe calmly now, I think you've got some swelling to your throat which may make it feel a bit restricted. And if your chest is hurting there's always the risk that I've gone and broken a rib during resuscitation, sorry in advance if that's the case".

Mycroft said nothing but continued to focus on breathing, his face contorted in discomfort. John gave his shoulder a soothing rub and thought to himself how cruel Sherlock was to not offer his brother a few moments of support.

* * *

Molly almost leapt out of her skin as she entered the mortuary and found Sherlock peering over a corpse. He was again examining the body of the Defence Secretary, closely studying the man's neck.

"What are you doing Sherlock?" Molly demanded, "you can't just come in here and wheel bodies out whenever you want."

"Sorry Molly," Sherlock said, although little sincerity was present in his voice, "I'm on a trail. I need evidence and I need it now. I need you to drop everything you're doing and help me. I've to to find out where Moriarty is hiding".

"Moriarty?" Asked Molly as she began to pull on surgical gloves obediently, "what's he got to do with this?"

"He's the assassin Molly. He's the one who has killed these men and he's got more victims planned. We've got to stop him before he wipes out the whole government".

"Wow," said Molly, her eyes widening in surprise, "how do you know this? What made you suspect him?"

"Because I just caught him as he was trying to finish off his next victim," Sherlock said with a satisfied grin, "earlier today he attacked Mycroft, nearly throttled him to death. Luckily for my big brother, we got there just in time!"

Sherlock looked at Molly, flashing the arrogant smile that he always knew got a response. He was confused to see her face looking utterly horrified, her hands frozen mid-air as she pulled on her second glove.

"He attacked Mycroft?" She whispered slowly, the information washing over her, "is he ok? Was he hurt?"

"Of course he's ok!" Exclaimed Sherlock, confused as to why Molly seemed so worried, "I told you. He started breathing again and then John was going to take him to hospital. Well at least that was the plan. I didn't wait for the ambulance to arrive".

Molly's shocked face changed into one of grim anger. She fixed Sherlock with a furious glare.

"You mean you didn't even go to the hospital with him?" She asked quietly, her voice shaking with rage.

"Why would I? He was fine!" Said Sherlock irritably, "now can we get on with this please?"

Moly was silent for a few more seconds before ripping off the surgical gloves and storming into her office. Sherlock was more confused than ever when she returned again a minute later, her coat on and her handbag over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"To do what you should be doing!" She shouted back, slamming the door behind as she left and not even glancing at Sherlock.

* * *

"John? It's Molly here," Molly said into her mobile as she tried to hail a cab.

"Hi Molly, how are you?" Came John's friendly voice.

Molly ignored the question.

"Where's Mycroft?" She asked.

"What?"

Molly gritted her teeth impatiently.

"Mycroft Holmes!" She shouted angrily, "do you know many people called Mycroft? Sherlock told me what happened. Where is he?"

"Oh I see! Sorry, I just didn't even know that you knew Mycroft. He's been to hospital but now he's gone."

"Gone?" Molly said frantically, "why did he go? Didn't he have to stay in overnight?"

John gave a contemptuous snort down the phone.

"Trust me," said John, "you can't make Mycroft do anything he does not want to do. He had a check-up and he's fine. He's going to have some rotten bruising, but no lasting damage. I was sure I'd broken one of his ribs, but that was just bruising as well. He was prescribed some painkillers and then he was off, discharged himself immediately."

"But where has he gone?" Asked Molly, "didn't he tell you?"

"I didn't even see him go, Molly. He just discharged himself. Mycroft would never wait for the permission of a doctor".

Molly said nothing, not knowing what to do next. Mycroft was out there somewhere, feeling sore and in pain and alone.

Completely alone.

John's voice cut into her thoughts.

"If you really want to find him there's this weird place he seems to hang around a lot. Some sort of club, I think. I can text you the address if you like? If he's not there then I've no idea. I expect after today he just wants a bit of peace".

"Oh yes John, please," Molly said eagerly, hanging up the phone without saying goodbye in eagerness for the text message to come through. The message alert beeped just as Molly managed to hail a taxi. She climbed in, leaning forward to show the driver the address on her phone.

"Take me here, please," she said, watching for a flicker of recognition from the driver.

"The Diogenes, what?" He said looking confused.

"Quickly as possibly, if you could," Molly said, settling back impatiently into the seat.


	4. Chapter 4

An intentionally short little chapter here because, as you will see at the end, I did not want a chapter break in the narrative events which might happen next. Please review my story if you have a few spare moments, I would love so much to know what you readers are thinking.

happy reading to all

* * *

"Is Mycroft Holmes there, please?" Molly asked the immaculately distinguished gentleman manning the door of the Diogenes club.

She was completely taken aback by his reaction; the man stared at Molly with an expression which would have been more appropriate to someone who had spat in his face. Molly was not quite sure what she had done wrong.

"Please?" She asked in gentle voice, smiling sweetly, "it really is urgent".

Molly decided she better stop talking when she saw the man's reaction. His face was scarlet with rage and he looked as if he were going to burst a blood vessel. Still fixing her with a furious glare, he stalked off irritably. Molly couldn't help noticing that the man seemed to have white covers tied over his shoes. What was this strange place? Maybe John had got the wrong address, it seemed unlikely that Mycroft would enjoy relaxing at such a perculiar place. A moment later the man returned, seemingly slightly calmer, and gestured Molly forward with a silent wave of his hand. She stepped in nervously, not daring to do anything else wrong.

* * *

Mycroft sat at his desk in a private room in the Diogenes club, listlessly flicking through a newspaper that he was not really reading. It was very late, he was tired, the violent assault on his body had left him aching and sore. But Mycroft had not felt like going home yet, returning to the scene of the attack. It was not that he was scared or traumatised by what had happened; Mycroft was extremely cynical about attributing stress or anxiety to apparently distressing events in the past. His entire life was driven by stressful situations, this was just yet another. He had just not felt like going home yet, he needed some solitude to calm his mind and try and relax.

He felt slightly guilty about John. It had been quite rude of him not to at least wait to thank John before discharging himself from hospital. Mycroft made a mental note that in the morning he had to go to Baker Street and thank John in person, not only for saving his life but for being such a kind and supportive presence during those first few agonising minutes after he had regained consciousness. But Mycroft had wanted to get away from the hospital. It was not that he had a particular problem with hospitals, although they were hardly the nicest place to be, but he couldn't stand so many people fussing over him. Doctors and nurses, talking to him and checking him and constantly touching him, examining various parts of his body and not leaving him alone for more than a minute. Mycroft was so used to solitude that to suddenly be in the care of others felt extremely uncomfortable. He was used to being in charge and in control, not having a nurse firmly trying to insist that he had to put on a hospital gown. When Mycroft gave an order, everybody around him obeyed unquestionly. Instead he had found himself arguing with a very insistent nurse who had ignored his protests and tried to actually remove his shirt in order to force him into the appropriate hospital wear. This display of over familiarity was the last straw, and once Mycroft had the painkillers which he suspected he was going to need over the next few days, he had gone.

Mycroft's thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a silent member of staff who seemed to glide like a ghost towards him. Mycroft accepted the message which was presented to him on a small silver tray and frowned at it in confusion. A visitor? Who could be visiting him here at this time of night? Maybe John had tried to track him down, concerned by his sudden disappearance. Mycroft hoped not, that would only make him feel much worse.

Mycroft nodded to indicate to the man that he would accept the guest. A few moments later his eyes widened in astonishment as Molly Hooper entered the room. Mycroft did not utter a word until the door was firmly shut.

"Miss Hooper!" He exclaimed, "this is very unexpected".

Molly looked anxiously at him before whispering nervously in a voice that was barely audible.

"Am I allowed to talk to you?" She said cautiously, looking around her as if she expected someone to leap out from the behind the bookshelves and attempt to gag her.

Mycroft could not help smiling, she really was such an endearing young woman.

"Yes you are allowed to talk to me, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, a slight smirk dancing around his mouth, "either that or we simply stare at each other for the next few minutes".

"Oh yeah," said Molly, feeling stupid. But that was nothing new, she was used to feeling stupid when one of the Holmes brothers was around.

Molly stepped forward, her eyes bright with concern, searching Mycroft's face for signs of distress.

"Sherlock told me what happened," she said, "are you ok?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise and shrugged.

"Fine thank you," he said, "nothing that won't heal itself in a few days. Now what is it you wanted to see me about?"

"Oh," said Molly, beginning to feel even stupider, "that was what I came to see you about. I was worried you see. I wanted to check you were ok".

Molly's words trailed off into an embarrassed silence. Mycroft was uncharacteristically lost for words, not knowing how to respond to this revelation. Molly had never felt such an idiot in her life. She barely knew this man but had come chasing after him like some sort of over-bearing mother. He must think she was crazy. As much as Sherlock had annoyed her earlier, she was beginning to wish she had followed his lead and simply shrugged off the news of Mycroft's attack.

It was Mycroft who decided it was time to break the tension.

"That was extremely considerate of you, thank you," he said genuinely, for he really did feel that Molly was an exceptionally warmhearted person.

Molly took a small step forward and winced as she focused upon the skin on Mycroft's neck. The ring of damaged skin was still red and angry, glowing with a nasty rawness which looked painful. The faintest tinge of grey and purple bruising was beginning to show, colours which would no doubt look spectacularly awful in the morning. Mycroft saw her looking and adjusted his collar self-consciously.

"Nothing to worry about," he said, hoping she would stop looking.

Molly did stop looking at his neck and focused instead upon his eyes, looking sympathetically at him. She had so much affection and care to offer, but it never seemed to be directed at the right people.

"It's getting very late, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, "let me give you a lift home".

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly, you're not even feeling well!" exclaimed Molly.

Mycroft smiled curtly.

"I'm fine, and it would honestly be my pleasure to give you a lift home," he said in a tone of excessive politeness.

Molly did not protest anymore, but obediently followed him out to a car that he always kept parked in a private garage at the club for any time he needed it.

* * *

They did not speak much on the way home, nothing beyond the occasionally uninteresting comment about work or the weather or London traffic. Molly kept shooting sideways glances at Mycroft, wondering if she dared to try and develop their faltering relationship a bit further. Perhaps this was what he wanted, after all, it was his suggestion to drive her home. Anybody knew that to drive somebody home meant that crucial moment when you arrived at the front door; what action was taken then was critical in determining what would happen next.

It was not long before Mycroft pulled the car silently outside Molly's quiet little flat. He cut the engine and turned to her, only half his face illuminated in the glow of a streetlamp. Molly's skin was tingling as she took in his dominant stare. She could not remember the last time she had felt such desire for a man.

"Goodnight, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, his manners impeccable as always, "and your concern tonight was much appreciated. Extremely thoughtful of you".

Molly opened her mouth to reply, to ask him to come up for a coffee, hopefully a convincing pretext upon which he would enter the flat. That was the way you always did it, right? Coffee was always the way to try and get someone into a slightly cosier situation.

Molly could not speak, she could not force herself to form the words that she wanted to stay. Instead she opted for an alternative form of action; without warning, she took Mycroft's face in her hands and kissed him deeply, working her mouth hungrily against his. She was suprised to find little resistance this time, Mycroft seemed to respond with equal warmth, his mouth opening and their tongues entwining, their tiny gasps of breath forming little patches of heat of each other's skin.

Emboldened by his response, Molly became more assertive, her hands gently groping at his body as their deep kisses continued. She found her hands on his knees as she gently pushed his legs slightly apart, squeezing playfully at his inner thighs before running one hand boldly towards towards his groin.

Mycroft's body stiffened and he pulled away.

"I'm not sure this is the right place for that sort of thing," he said breathlessly, gently nudging her hand away from the more private parts of his body.

"Then let's go somewhere a bit more appropriate," Molly suggested, her arousal at what surely must now happen making her eager to push him further.

Mycroft looked at her in surprise and Molly was puzzled to see a distinct glow of fear in his eyes.

"You mean..." He said nervously, not finishing his sentence.

"Bedroom?" Molly suggested playfully, leaning forward and giving his earlobe a gently kiss which sent shivers down his back. She was slightly disappointed to see the reluctance in his face. She pulled away, suddenly fearing the worse.

"Do you not find me attractive?" She asked, her tone of voice hurt and confused.

"It's not that at all," Mycroft replied quietly, his eyes now fixed on the ground, "it's just..."

His sentence hung in the air, the anticipation for the answer making Molly impatient.

"It's what?" She demanded.

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, his gaze now fixed on the window. He seemed to be struggling badly with what needed to be said.

"Its been a long time," he said finally, refusing to meet Molly's gaze.

Molly laughed in relief.

"Is that it?" She exclaimed, "well that makes two of us! It's been a long time for me as well!"

"No. I'm not sure you understand," Mycroft said, turning to her now and looking serious, "I mean it's been a really long time. I don't even mean years, I mean a few decades."

There was silence again as Molly processed this surprising information. To be fair to Mycroft, that was indeed a very unusual thing for a man to be able to say.

"I'm sure I'd be a great disappointment to you," he continued awkwardly, "it isn't even an exaggeration to say that I wouldn't even know what to do anymore".

Mycroft stayed quiet after this statement, waiting for her to exit the car so any further embarrassment for either of them could be avoided and at least a shred of his dignity would remain intact. It was most unexpected instead to find her taking his hand, a gentle and sweet smile spreading across her face.

"Don't you worry," she whispered sweetly, "we'll take it nice and slowly. I'll show you exactly what to do. And why is this all about me? Something tells me that you need someone to make you feel good as well".


	5. Chapter 5

Hello readers and welcome to any new followers, it has been wonderful to see some new interest in this story. Please review if you have a moment, it is so nice to see what people think.

warning! There is some adult content in this chapter. Please do not read if you think you may be offended.

please enjoy

* * *

It was with a sense a disbelief that Mycroft entered Molly's small but cosy one bedroom flat. What the hell was he doing here? He must be really losing his grip on reality to have allowed himself to be tempted into this situation.

Mycroft looked around Molly's flat curiously; the homes of other people always stimulated his inquisitive nature. It was a very girly flat, undeniably feminine. The furnishings were cream with lots of pink accessories, including fluffy pink cushions, a luxurious throw for the sofa and pink candles on the mantelpiece. The flat was reasonably tidy, but included a lot of clutter which Mycroft would not have allowed in his own house. Over the coffee table and the window sills and armchair arms were strewn DVDs and shopping receipts and pens and biscuit wrappers and coffee cups and magazines. Mycroft's austere home would not tolerate such a degree of excess belongings.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" Asked Molly, interrupting Mycroft's thoughts.

"Thank you," he replied, although he considered changing his mind when he saw that Molly was unscrewing a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Mycroft was not keen on white wine, he preferred a deep and rich red. However, he also knew that his nervous heart was pounding so wildly in his chest that a glass of wine, whatever colour, would be advisable to help keep him calm.

Molly handed him a glass and they both drank together, her eyes never leaving his face, waiting for the opportune moment to gently push him towards what they had come here for. Mycroft drank deeply and quickly, worryingly slightly that Molly might think he needed to get himself drunk in order to proceed with the night. Excess drinking was not his intention at all, he simply needed anything which would help him try and relax.

Mycroft was relieved when Molly unexpectedly took a seat upon the sofa. He followed her lead and sat upon the armchair. It looked as if things were not going to move as quickly as he had feared.

Molly was fiddling nervously with her glass.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question?" She said abruptly, "but it is a slightly personal question. You do not have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable".

This did not sound promising, thought Mycroft anxiously.

"What is it?"

Molly looked at the floor, trying to phrase her question in the correct way.

"You said back in the car, that it's been a long time for you," she asked shyly, "but I guess what I wanted to know was why. I supposed I was wondering if you were lying to me and actually you were a virgin".

Mycroft felt his cheeks blush red. Molly saw this and was instantly sorry.

"I did not mean to embarrass you," she said earnestly, "it's really not a problem, I promise. But you're a charming man and handsome with it. I just wondered if there was a reason why there had been nobody in your life?"

Mycroft swallowed his final mouthful of wine as he pondered upon what was the best answer to give.

"Well, let's just say it was a conscious decision on my part," he said carefully, "for the sake of my career".

Of course Mycroft was not going to confide his entire personal history to her, although what he said was true. In addition to that, he privately had never found sex particularly satisfying or enjoyable, certainly not the indescribably pleasurable event which other people seemed to experience. Mycroft had wondered if it was something to do with him, although a lot of this lack of pleasure was due to the few women who had occupied his life. He had lost his virginity at aged eighteen, in a typically awkward and fumbling encounter for somebody of this age, resulting in little satisfaction for either party. At university, Mycroft had embarked on two brief relationships, but both of these had been disappointing when it came to the physical side of the affair. Mycroft knew that part of the fault lay in his choice to opt for women who were too like himself; steady, calm, introverted, reserved and emotionally stunted women who did not have the confidence to be free and liberal in bed. Mycroft had found sex a very perfunctory act in these relationships and they had fizzled out fairly quickly. Anxious to experience what he had yet to discover, Mycroft had ended his university days by taking a bold step and opting for a woman who was completely different to his normal type and beyond the realms of the usual relationships he would have engaged in. Despite his better judgement, he had allowed himself to engage in a one night stand with a loud and confident girl who he met at the graduation ball. But this encounter had proved disastereous, fuelled solely by drink and desperation. It was not long after that Mycroft has first entered employment in the government and his thirst for power and hungry ambition took precedent in his life. As he quickly worked his way through the ranks, Mycroft had made the decision to abstain from love and sex and relationships; all they did was complicate life and make a man vulnerable to the temptations of others.

Mycroft's thoughts of the past were interrupted as he caught Molly's questioning gaze. She was not his typical type at all, she was so gentle and affectionate. Despite her sweet and delicate nature, Mycroft could not stop himself feeling distinctly nervous as she rose from her seat, took his hand and gently pulled at his arm as an indicator to move.

"Time to go into the other room," she whispered softly, her kind smile not entirely in keeping with the hot passion burning in her eyes. Molly Hooper might be a sweet girl, but Mycroft sense she was much more in touch with her sexuality than he was.

Mycroft followed her tentatively into the next room, his stomach clenching when he realised they were in the bedroom. He knew he should not exactly be suprised, she was hardly likely to lead him into the bathroom. But being in this room, a room with connotations of privacy and intimacy, his nerves were suddenly in shreds.

Molly was clearly aware of how he was feeling and placed her hands softly upon his chest.

"We can go as slow as you need," Molly said reassuringly, "there's no pressure. And we won't do anything you don't want to".

Mycroft nodded stiffly but this did not convey the turmoil that was raging in his mind. Suppose he genuinely did not know what to do? His experience was so limited, she might ask him to do something he had never even heard of. He would be so embarrassed that he would never be able to look Molly in the face again. Or what if she showed him what to do, and his lack of experience made him a terrible disappointment? Or even worse, what if he could not do it at all? He was so anxious that he was sure that he would struggle to get an erection, let alone maintain it long enough to give Molly any sort of pleasure. And he had no idea how experienced she was, it certainly did not seem an appropriate question to ask. Maybe she had dozens of incredible men in her past to compare him with, against which Mycroft would seem like an extreme letdown. And what is she found him physically unattractive? Mycroft had totally forgotten this worry until this very moment. He was not very confident when it came to his body, he was always conscious of his weight and did not attribute much appreciation towards his own looks. A more intense panic set in as Mycroft pictured in his mind the flabbiness which he believed existed around his stomach, and the muscles in his chest which could probably have benefitted from some toning up, all of which would be subject to Molly's judgement once they began to undress. Mycroft suddenly wondered if he really should withdraw from this encounter before it went any further; the thought of being naked in front of Molly was too stressful to even contemplate.

Molly's hands slid up towards his shoulders where she squeezed the tense muscles she could feel beneath his shirt.

"You really need to learn to relax," she whispered gently, preventing him from answering by catching his lips in a deep kiss.

Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to force himself to calm down; he was here now and in this situation, and he really needed to try and let himself go. Molly pulled him closer, their bodies now pressed firmly against one another. Mycroft could feel the contours of her body, the curves of her hips and the sensation of her breasts against his ribs. Her hands were now starting to explore him again, gently skimming the length of his body, resting tantalisingly on the waistband of his trousers.

Hooking her fingers through the belt loops, Molly pulled Mycroft firmly towards her; it took a moment before he realised she was manoeuvring him towards the bed. She guided him down until he was lying awkwardly on his side, Molly smiling next to him as she rolled him onto his back. Mycroft was enjoying her touch, but he knew he was still far from relaxed. He could never relax when he was not in control; Molly was the one leading this situation and that shift in position was making him uncomfortable. This feeling became only worse when Molly carefully moved so that she was now on top of him, her legs straddling his body, her face now looking down into his. Mycroft wondered if this new position was allowing her to notice that he was yet to become aroused, tension still stunting any response from his groin.

"You ok?" Molly asked, aware that Mycroft was even more nervous than she had anticipated. She was confident that he would be fine, and would become more responsive as they went further, but she was also anxious to not make him feel too pressurised.

Mycroft nodded, hoping it was convincing enough to hide the multiplicity of feelings he was experiencing. Molly lowered her mouth to continue their kissing and Mycroft almost held his breath when he realised she was changing direction. She avoided his mouth and began to move down, planting kisses on his neck and collar bone, her fingers starting to undo the buttons of his shirt and her mouth followed the trail of skin which was slowly being exposed, bestowing kisses on his chest. Mycroft's heartbeat started to quicken and his breathing intensified, the feeling of lips and fingers beneath his shirt making his body tingle. The fear was still there, but an undeniable pleasure was gradually starting to build.

She reached his stomach, the final few buttons now undone, and in one movement pulled the shirt open, her eyes gazing down upon his bare chest. Mycroft's self-consciousness reared up instantly, as he glanced fearfully down with shame at his own body. He caught Molly's eye and gave a nervous laugh.

"The diet and fitness regime hasn't been going quite as well as I'd hoped," he said, pointing with his eyes towards his stomach, hoping a lighthearted comment might ease any awkwardness.

Molly ran her fingers lightly over the area, giving him a slightly scornful look.

"What are you going on about?" She scolded, more playfully than with any genuine annoyance, "your one of the slimmest men I've ever seen, you're in amazing shape. Your body is wonderful".

Using her tongue now, she gently licked her way up from his stomach to his chest, pausing to bury her nose in the hair on his chest, smiling appreciatively as he stared at her with disbelief.

"And I love men with hairy chests," she said sincerely, raking her fingers through the layer between his nipples, "it's so masculine and sexy".

Mycroft blushed, partly out of embarrassment and partly from pleasure. Never in all his wildest dreams could he ever have imagined the word "sexy" being applied to him.

"You really mean it?" He asked, his vulnerability still apparent, " I'm not much, but you honestly think I look ok?"

Molly looked at him with totally sincerity and honesty.

"You are perfect," she said, "I just can't wait now to see the rest of you!"

Mycroft felt his confidence growing ever so slightly, relief that she had not found him hideously unattractive flooding his veins. Of course he could not relax entirely yet, there was still concern about other inadequacies to consider.

More boldly now, with the pace beginning to rise, Molly undid the front of Mycroft's trousers, clambering briefly off the bed in order to pull them off. She took the opportunity whilst standing to quickly remove her own blouse and skirt, providing Mycroft with yet more relief as it meant he did not have to take the responsibility for undressing her. They were now both in their underwear, she in very plain and simple white cotton bra and knickers, he in black shorts. Mycroft could sense that both their eyes were focused upon his own groin, which was still embarrassingly unresponsive, the bulge in his underwear quite obviously not hardening.

"Time to do something about that," Molly said mischieviously, hoping Mycroft would realise she was having a playful tease rather than criticising. She placed her hands upon his thighs and parted his legs slightly, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on the inner side of his knee.

Mycroft focused upon the ceiling above him as he felt Molly exploring his legs, her hands stroking over his hips, her fingers teasing the top of his underwear. He knew that any minute her hands would make contact with his cock, he prayed it was going to finally show some appreciation for her efforts. He could feel Molly's lips teasing the skin on his inner thigh, creeping slowly upwards, closer and closer to the top. It was only then that realisation finally hit Mycroft and he realised what else was on her mind, that it was not only her hands which were going to tease his most intimate parts.

Mycroft's mind started to race. Was she really? Was she really going to do _that_ to him? Mycroft had not been lying when she had queried as to whether he was a virgin, but when it came to that particular act, the truth was different. No one had ever done that to him. He had often wondered what it felt like, and been even more curious as to why women did it. Did they enjoy it as well? It seemed almost slightly unhygienic in Mycroft's prim and inexperienced mind. He had no further time to contemplate his various questions when a wave of the most extreme pleasure seemed to engulf every inch of him, so intense that it took his breath away; Molly had finally touched his cock, her hand cupping him and gently squeezing him through the fabric of his shorts.

Mycroft closed his eyes, almost panting as the feelings overwhelmed him. For the first time in his life he finally realised the importance of foreplay, he had never experienced sensations like this before. Molly touched him there again and this time he actually groaned in pleasure, flushing with embarrassment when he realised what he had just done, the self-consciousness which had slowly been ebbing away coming back.

"Don't worry, it's good to know you're enjoying it," Molly murmured, seeming to sense the sudden flush of shyness that came over him.

Molly's mouth was now at his waistband, her lips so tantalising close to his cock that finally, and to Mycroft's overwhelming relief, he felt it beginning to respond properly, the flesh beginning to harden and the bulge starting to grow. Molly felt it as well, her hands easing off his underwear, leaving him now naked upon the bed. As excited as he was, Mycroft was once again nervous, anxious to again receive her approval. He had nothing to fear this time, Molly wrapping her small hand around the now rock-hard erection, stroking him firmly and making him once again moan in response.

"It's even nicer than I thought it would be," she said, her arousal clear on her face, "you are lovely and big".

Mycroft marvelled at how relaxed she was, she had absolutely no qualms about talking about sex and their bodies in the most frank way. She did not seem to find anything awkward at all. He had seen her as such a gentle and anxious to please girl, he did not know where this confidence and assertiveness came from.

Mycroft watched her wide-eyes as she once again lowered her head, not quite believing that this was really about to happen to him. Molly continued to tease him for a few moments, kissing and licking the skin surrounding his groin, but not touching the area which was now so aroused that Mycroft was almost in pain. He willed her silently to give him what he needed, his erection crying out for some relief.

Molly herself could not delay too long, and it was with utter joy that Mycroft finally saw and felt her lips touch his cock, her tongue quickly joining them, long licks moistening his full length as her fingers gripped around the base. When her mouth opened and she took the tip of him beyond her lips, Mycroft felt as if he could take any more. He threw his head back onto the bed and closed his eyes, his back arching as he groaned with pleasure, his legs shaking slightly, his hands reaching outwards and clawing at handfuls of bed sheets as he tried to manage the pulsing sensations which were running through him. Molly was now taking his full length into her mouth, the warmth and wetness engulfing him, the feeling more intense than anything he had ever experienced. For the first time that night, any worries about his body or anxieties about what she would think of him were finally gone. It was surely not possible for a person to be any more intimate than they were being, Molly now having touched and kissed and seen every inch of him. And in this moment, she was becoming more familiar with his body than anybody had ever been, exploring him in a way and doing something to him that was so special and intense.

Mycroft dared himself to look down again and was transfixed to see that Molly's mouth was fully encasing him, his entire cock not visible beyond her lips. He suddenly felt as if he could no longer control himself, the pleasure was becoming almost too much, his excitement reaching a peak. His legs were shaking even more and he began to pant as a feeling of overpowering arousal began to build in his stomach, almost like a dull throbbing sensation. Molly noticed this as well and very gently withdrew him from her mouth, instead placing her hands on his hips and giving him a slow but soothing stroke. The feeling inside Mycroft started to slow down.

"Thought we better take a moment there," Molly said with a breathless grin, her hair now hanging messily around her face and her skin slightly shiny with sweat, "don't want you to finish just yet".

They lay there for another minute whilst Mycroft's body calmed down slightly. She was correct, he had been on the very brink of climax. Molly moved so they were now back at eye level with each other, giving him a long kiss on the lips once she was there. Mycroft thought he could catch just the tiniest taste of himself on her tongue; that seemed an oddly pleasant thing to experience.

"You ready?" Molly asked, presumably checking he wanted to continue.

Mycroft nodded, much more eagerly this time, and allowed himself to be moved so that this time he was on top of Molly, kneeling between her parted legs. She took a moment to quickly dispense of her own underwear which was still on, unclipping her bra and sliding off her knickers before throwing them on the bedroom floor. Mycroft looked down at her body, suddenly feeling guiltily aware that he had not really paid much attention to her physically, the entire focus had been upon him. He wanted to touch her breasts and perhaps make some sort of effort to make her feel as incredible as she had made him feel. His lack of attention did not stem from disinterest or selfishness, he was genuinely unsure of how to pleasure her with the same level of confidence. Once again, Molly seemed to be a mind reader and gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze, not saying anything but seeming to acknowledge with her eyes that everything was alright and she did not mind. She reached down between them a gave his cock another gentle stroke, this time guiding him towards her and leading him closer.

"I'm ready when you are," she said, anticipation and excitement making her breathing heavier.

Mycroft shifted so that he was pressed against her, noticing how much warmth and wetness was spread over both of them. With total ease he slid himself inside her, pushing immediately so he was fully within her, hitting a spot deep inside her body. Molly gasped, but to Mycroft's horror it did not entirely sound like one of pleasure. He looked down anxiously and was mortified to see a look of discomfort on her face. The fragile confidence that had been building inside him was instantly shattered. Oh God, he thought, I've hurt her.

"Sorry, did I do it wrong? Does it hurt?" He asked, wondering if he should stay still or withdraw.

Molly gave him a reassuring smile and put her hands on his arms.

"Just a bit quick to start with," she explained gently, hoping she was not upsetting him, "just go a bit slower to start".

Mycroft hesitated, now unsure as to how to proceed. Molly nodded encouragingly.

"It's normal, you didn't do anything wrong," she said, "it just sometimes takes a moment for it to feel comfortable".

Mycroft nodded, feeling slightly better, and moved once again, this time slower, terrified of hurting her again. In retrospect, he supposed that entering her in one full movement was probably slightly too quick. He tried to shrug away these worries and focus instead upon the amazing fact that after so many, many year of celibacy, he was finally having sex with a woman, the feeling of a responsive body beneath his a very welcome sensation. As he moved his hips steadily and slowly, sliding in and out of Molly gently, he was relieved to see that she was right. With her muscles now relaxed she was writhing and moaning beneath him, each thrust making her gasp, this time with enjoyment. For Mycroft, the feeling was incredible, like nothing he had felt before. So this was proper sex, nothing like the unsatisfactory and functional fumblings of his younger days.

Emboldened by her enthusiasm, Mycroft cautiously moved slightly faster and harder, hoping this little bit of initiative was the right thing to do. It felt right, he was sure their bodies wanted to increase the pace. He was correct, Molly started to moan even louder. She gripped his shoulders hard now, digging her fingernails into his back, both of them completely forgetting about the injuries he had sustained earlier. That seemed to belong to another lifetime.

"Harder," she told him through gasps and pants, "do it harder".

Mycroft obeyed, knowing that they were unlikely to continue for much longer; the throbbing climax in his stomach was beginning to build again. But this time, they didn't stop to slow him down, they were too far gone for that.

Mycroft managed another few erratic thrusts before the wave of pleasure took total hold and he fell forward on top of her, his vision seeming to go black for a split second as the orgasm ripped through him and he climaxed deep inside her. He could feel her muscles throbbing and contracting around him; he hoped that she too had climaxed, but having never felt it before, he was not entirely sure of the signs. Whatever the result, as he looked down at Molly he was content to see that she too looked to be in a state of blissful climax, her eyes closed and her mouth open as she breathed through the sensations.

A few moments passed and neither of them said anything. Mycroft could feel himself slowly softening inside her; when it felt as if his erection had entirely gone, he carefully pulled himself out, rolling onto to his back and lying beside her, total exhaustion now taking hold. He had been awake now for over 24 hours and they had proved to be the most extraordinary of his life. Beside him, Molly sat up sleepily, just awake enough to fish around on the floor and find the duvet, dragging it up and throwing it roughly over them both, before turning on her side and closing her eyes. She too was almost asleep, extreme tiredness making it impossible to stay awake a moment longer.

"Goodnight," Mycroft mumbled, barely getting the word out before falling asleep. There were many other things he wanted to say, but they would have to wait until morning.

Molly was almost asleep as well. She was so tired that something in her unconscious seemed to stir as she replied to Mycroft, something buried so deep that she did not even hear herself say it.

"Goodnight Sherlock", she murmured, before falling into a deep and satisfied sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Hello and welcome to my latest update. I've been pondering carefully where this story is going, hence a bit of a delay in putting together chapter 6. I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

to all those of have previously left reviews, my deepest thanks. I absolutely love getting a reaction to my work. If you can spare a minute, any feedback and reviews for the developments in this story are greatly received. It truly means a lot.

please enjoy :)

* * *

Mycroft was awoken suddenly but rather pleasantly by a flurry of kisses to his lips and face. He opened his eyes blearily, still feeling extremely tired. He had had nowhere near enough sleep to combat the effects of the previous day. His first sight on the day was Molly, who seemed giggly and excitable and keen to get out of bed.

"Wake up!" She exclaimed giving him a playful shove with her pillow, "it's Saturday, we've got loads of time and I want to enjoy it as much as possible!"

She climbed out of bed and stood naked in front of her dressing table, briskly brushing her long hair. Mycroft watched her, pulling the duvet further over himself, not quite so comfortable with his own nakedness. Molly gave him a big smile and turned to go into the bathroom. He could hear the noise of a torrent of water as she turned on the shower, continuing to talk to him over the noise.

"I thought once we were dressed we could go and get breakfast," she said, shouting to make herself heard over the water, "there's a nice little place just off the main road, it's a lot quieter than the one with all the red tables. And they do amazing croissants in there, it's a bit pricier but worth it. I went in there a few months ago and..."

Mycroft had stopped listening to Molly as he lay in the bed and contemplated the situation. He felt distinctly uncomfortable with the way things were developing. Molly was a lovely girl, he enjoyed being with her and the previous night had been incredible. Mycroft shivered with pleasure as he recalled the events of the night; the sex had been amazing, she had allowed him to experience a level of pleasure that he had never thought was possible. But seeing her this morning, Mycroft was awkwardly aware that perhaps the feelings that had motivated their night together had been different for both of them. Mycroft had assumed that, like himself, Molly's actions the night before had been driven by desire and lust. The opportunity for some fantastic sex had presented itself, and they had both taken it. However, Mycroft now realised that there was more to this situation for Molly than he had perhaps anticipated. She clearly wanted a relationship, a stable man in her life who would make her happy. And in Mycroft, she seemed to be presuming that this was where they were going. Mycroft had the horrible feeling that they had gone to bed the previous night as casual lovers, but Molly had awoken under the impression that he was now her boyfriend.

Mycroft leapt out of bed and began to dress as quickly as possible, ignoring how unpleasant it felt to put worn clothes over his clammy body which was desperate for a long hot shower. He could sort that out when he got home. He had to get out of here, it was not fair to lead Molly on in the belief that they were now in a relationship. It was not that Mycroft was repelled by Molly, he liked her very much. But he knew that his lifestyle and job strictly forbade relationships. Caring was not an advantage, emotional attachments were just not possible.

Molly came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her and another being used to turban her hair. Her face and bare shoulders glistened with little droplets of water from the shower. Her bright cheerful smile fell as she saw Mycroft, now fully dressed and tying his shoe laces.

"Where are you going?" She asked.

"I'm sorry Molly, I can't stay," Mycroft explained, "I need to be at the office".

"It's Saturday!" Molly exclaimed.

Mycroft shrugged.

"Mine is not exactly a Monday to Friday job. I work when it is required, and seeing as how we have a political assassin on the prowl, I am most definitely required".

Molly nodded, her eyes dropping to the ground and her shoulders sagging with disappointment. Mycroft felt terrible, perhaps sleeping with her had not been such a sensible idea after all.

"Listen, Molly," he began awkwardly, feeling he had to say something, "last night was wonderful. Being with you was the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. But..."

"But what?" She interrupted, her eyes wide and fearful in anticipation as to what he was going to say.

Mycroft hesitated, knowing what he had to say but not wanting to upset her.

"I know this sounds awful, but I do not think we should consider ourselves as in a relationship. I do not maintain personal relationships, it is not compatible with my work or my life. If you are looking for a partner then I'm afraid you are mistaken to think it could be me".

Molly did not reply, her face thoughtful as she processed what he had said. Mycroft sighed heavily and gave her an apologetic look.

"Perhaps we should have had this conversation before last night," he continued, "and for that, I'm sorry. If you feel I've deceived you then I apologise and I will leave immediately".

"No," Molly replied suddenly, "don't feel like that".

Mycroft was suprised to see her solemn face breaking out into a gentle smile. He had been expecting her to start screaming and throwing things at him.

"Neither of us discussed exactly where this was going, did we?" She said, "it's ok, I was not expecting that we would suddenly be a couple or anything".

Mycroft was not sure he entirely believed this, but did not contradict her.

"So can we maybe see each other again?" Molly asked hopefully.

Mycroft was not sure how to respond. Surely if he was not prepared to commit to her, it was not sensible to see her again?

Molly seemed to read his thoughts.

"Don't worry, I just meant as friends," she said, "I just meant see each other for dinner or a chat or something".

She continued to look at him hopefully. Mycroft gave her a small smile; perhaps he was blowing the dynamics of this situation out of proportion.

"I'm sure we'll see each other at some point," he said, careful to keep his answer casual and fluid so as not to promise something which would get her hopes up.

Molly smiled happily and they both seemed to feel that the situation had been resolved in a way which seemed reasonable to both of them. Mycroft decided it was time to leave. Molly escorted him to the door, avoiding standing in the doorway as she was still only wrapped in a towel. They self-consciously kissed each other on the cheek and Mycroft left, Molly peeking through a crack in the door to watch him until his car was out of sight.

* * *

Although Mycroft was intending to go to the office at some point, his first priority was to go straight home. Once there, he stripped off all his clothes and threw them into the wash. He poured himself a hot, deep bath and gave a little groan of satisfaction as he slid down into the bubbly depth. Mycroft luxuriated in hot water and enjoyed a long bath more than anything. However, it was a luxury he rarely had time for with quick showers usually having to suffice. Today he really felt the need for a long and thorough wash, his body feeling sweaty and unpleasant from the exertions of the previous day. It was only when he was undressed that Mycroft had the opportunity to study the bruising which had been left by the attack he had sustained at the hands of Moriarty. Mycroft frowned as he studied the patchy grey bruises on his throat and a number of others which were littered over his chest and arms. It would be a while before they faded, and the ones on his neck would be visible above his clothing.

However, his bruises were not the main thing on his mind. As Mycroft soaked in the bath, his thoughts returned to Molly. He was extremely glad he had been honest with her, and even happier that she had accepted his words so well. Mycroft was a ruthless and cold person, but he could not extend that attitude to Molly. She was a kind girl and had done nothing wrong, she did not deserve to be deceived. Mycroft was not sure if it would be sensible to see her again. She had claimed that they could socialise in a casual and friendly way, but Mycroft was not convinced that was possible after the intimacy that had passed between them. Whatever happened, Mycroft was adamant that he should certainly not have sex with her again. To do that would be completely unfair and really convince her that they had something special.

Mycroft closed his eyes and replayed their lovemaking in his mind. Beneath the water, he allowed his hand to gently begin stroking himself as he recalled the sights and sounds of the whole experience. Mycroft knew that deep down he wanted nothing more than to go through the whole experience again, to once again feel the exquisite pleasure of Molly working to excite him. But it must not happen, he told himself firmly.

Once he was finished bathing, Mycroft decided that he should visit Baker Street. He was still guiltily aware of his rudeness towards John and felt the need to thank him in person. He dressed quickly before calling a taxi to take him to his location.

On the way to Baker Street, Mycroft began to feel slightly anxious at seeing Sherlock. His brother's sharpness and perception were quite extraordinary, would he be able to sense somehow that Mycroft had spent the previous night with Molly? Mycroft did not see how this was possible, there was surely no incriminating evidence for Sherlock to spot. Mycroft had bathed thoroughly that morning so he was certain there were no tell-tale traces of lipstick or the lingering scent of Molly's perfume hovering around his person. Despite the passion of their encounter, Molly had been considerate enough to not leave any lovebites or visible signs of what they had done together. Nevertheless, Mycroft was on his guard and ready to divert Sherlock's curiosity if it arose.

When he arrived at Baker Street, Mycroft climbed the stairs to Sherlock and John's flat to find the door characteristically open. The two men were both seated around the kitchen table, drinking tea and chatting. Both looked up as Mycroft entered the room and John rose immediately to his feet.

"Mycroft!" He exclaimed with a smile, "it's good to see you. I was worried last night. How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad, thank you John," Mycroft replied, touched by John's obvious concern.

John took a few steps closer to Mycroft, his medical eye dropping to study the visible bruises on Mycroft's neck. Mycroft was secretly quite a vain man and felt conscious of the injuries which could be seen by all. It was embarrassing to be sporting such obvious bruises and Mycroft disliked anyone being able to know what had happened to him.

"May I?" Asked John, gesturing a hand towards Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft did not particularly wish to be examined, but he appreciated John's professionalism. He also recognised that John was genuinely concerned about the nature of his injuries, not simply curious for the sake of it.

John gently placed his hand on Mycroft's jaw and turned his head slightly to the side. He used his fingers to carefully pull aside Mycroft's shirt collar and closely study the tender bruises on his throat. He gave a sympathetic grimace.

"Looks painful," he said kindly, "but nothing that won't heal pretty quick. Believe it or not, you've actually been quite lucky".

"My luck was really in having you at hand, John" Mycroft said sincerely, "and that's why I'm here. To thank you for your timely actions and your care. Without you I might not be here now. You truly are a fine doctor".

Mycroft extended his hand to shake John's, who looked slightly overwhelmed and bashful at receiving a compliment.

"I was just doing what anybody would have done, nothing more," replied John modestly, shaking Mycroft's hand and returning his smile.

Sherlock had been silent throughout this entire exchange, his eyes seamlessly bouncing between John and the figure of his brother. Finally, he rose to his feet, moving close to Mycroft and studying him shrewdly.

"I see you did not spend last night at home," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes in order to assess Mycroft's reaction.

Mycroft had been prepared for this so was able to avoid any visible reaction. However, inside he was still alarmed that once again Sherlock was seemingly able to detect the undetectable.

"And so what?" He replied coolly, determined to give Sherlock no ammunition for further interrogation.

"So where were you?" Enquired Sherlock.

Mycroft paused before answering, acutely aware that both Sherlock and John were now staring at him.

"I did not feel like going home, after what happened. Irrational I realise, but I did not feel entirely comfortable sleeping in the same room where I was attacked. So I went to a hotel last night. Nothing sinister in that I assume?"

Mycroft shot Sherlock a challenging look, daring him to pursue the matter further. Sherlock gave a knowing grin and stepped even closer to Mycroft's face.

"And were you alone last night?" He asked pointedly, causing Mycroft's stomach to sink.

"Give it a rest, Sherlock".

Both men were suprised hear these words coming from John.

"What?" Exclaimed Sherlock irritably, rounding on John in annoyance.

"It's none of my business, but I think you should give your brother a break," explained John who returned to the kitchen table to finish his tea, "he suffered a major trauma yesterday. Just leave it".

Mycroft could not resist a smug smile in Sherlock's direction, noting that his brother looked furious at having been reprimanded. In any battle which ever occurred between the brothers, Sherlock always expected John to take his side.

"Well if that's all Sherlock I really must go," said Mycroft, keen to leave before the interrogation was pursued any further, "I'll be in touch shortly when I've had a chance to review where the investigation stands at the moment".

Sherlock did not answer. Mycroft gave a nod and a smile towards John who raised a hand in farewell.

"Take it easy Mycroft," John said with an expression of mock sternness, "doctor's orders are that you need to have a break and recover properly".

Mycroft nodded politely, despite the fact that they both knew it would take a miracle for Mycroft to obey and take a few days away from work. He turned and left the flat, leaving an annoyed Sherlock still staring at John.

"What?" Asked John irritably, feeling annoyed at Sherlock's self-righteous facial expression.

Why did you side with Mycroft?" Demanded Sherlock, "I was just asking him a perfectly civil question".

"No, Sherlock, you were not," explained John patiently, "you were prying and I think in the circumstances you should leave him alone".

"So it does not interest you in the slightest that I suspect Mycroft was not alone last night? that I think he spent the night with a companion, but who it was and why they were together I do not know yet?" Sherlock asked.

John hesitated. In truth, he found the idea that Mycroft had been with somebody quite intriguing. Mycroft Holmes was the most antisocial man he had ever met and he could not even begin to imagine anything which he did in private other than work. But unlike Sherlock, John was aware that respecting the privacy of another person came before idle curiosity.

"No, it does not interest me at all," said John, "Mycroft is entitled to his privacy and is not obliged to tell you everything".

Sherlock did not answer, not entirely in agreement with John's sensible philosophy. He sat at the table, sipping his now lukewarm tea and pondering the mystery of his brother and the sudden revelation that perhaps he did have some form of social life after all.

* * *

Mycroft finally made his way to the office but had an unproductive afternoon. He was tired and preoccupied and not in the mood to focus fully on the various tasks he had to do. Shortly after 6pm he decided that he had done enough; an early evening at home and some proper rest was probably what he needed. As he locked his office and began to walk down the corridor to the entrance hall, he heard the text message alert on his mobile sounding. Finding it in his pocket, he glanced down at the little screen.

Hi, it's Molly. Can you come around tonight? X

Mycroft sighed. Here was a tricky situation. The thought of Molly and her cosy home was an enticing thought indeed. It certainly cast a gloomy shadow over his current plans to sit alone in his silent and lonely house. But he reminded himself of what he had decided that morning, the logic still stood firm. With tremendous reluctance, he tapped a reply to the message.

Am not sure that is a good idea but thank you for the invite. MH

It was only once he had pressed send that Mycroft realised they shared the same initials. Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper. Two such different people, and yet a hidden bond which they shared. Two lonely people whose isolated existence had suddenly come into contact. The phone alerted him to a second text message.

I told you, am not trying to pressurise. Would just like to see you. Do you have other plans?

Mycroft smiled grimly to himself, as if it were likely he had other plans.

No I don't but I think it's a bit soon after last night. MH

Seconds later, Molly's reply appeared.

Please. I'm on my own tonight and so are you. Is there any harm in giving each other a little company?

Mycroft hesitated. He really should not even be considering this. But there was something about her words that he was finding extremely difficult to ignore. Did he really want to deny himself the pleasure of another person's company? He agonised for a few more minutes before he began to type his text message, knowing even as he wrote it that he should not be doing this.

I'll be there in around 30mins. MH

* * *

Mycroft spent the entire taxi ride to Molly's home giving himself a firm talking-to. He had to be sensible, he must not allow himself to do anything he would regret. He would spend some time with Molly, perhaps share a conversation and maybe some dinner, but that was it. He was certainly not going to allow any more emotional attachments to be formed between them. And above everything else, he was absolutely forbidden from even considering having sex with her again. Mycroft was suprised to realise that he actually felt quite shy and nervous at seeing Molly again. There was something quite odd about meeting up with the person with whom you had previously been to bed with. They had experienced each other in the most physically intimate way possible and that was something which could never be ignored.

When Mycroft reached Molly's home, a small pink note was attached to the front door. Frowning, Mycroft pulled it off in order to read it.

Don't knock, come in.

Mycroft was intrigued. These sorts of games were not normally his style, but his curiosity was certainly alert now. Obeying the note, he pushed open the unlocked door and entered into Molly's living area.

Mycroft was so taken aback by the sight before him that he simply stared open-mouthed, unable to say a word. The cluttered and disorganised room of the previous night had been completely cleaned and tidied, a small dining table now set up in the centre of the room. The table was set for two people, complete with carefully folded napkins and candles in the centre. There were lit candles dotted throughout the room, on the coffee table and along the mantelpiece. The lights in the room had been dimmed slightly and Mycroft could smell the faint scent of food cooking in the adjacent kitchen.

In the middle of all this stood Molly, an extremely nervous expression on her face as she anxiously studied his reaction. She had had her hair done and it was now pinned prettily on top of her hand, a few soft curled tendrils hanging down around her face. She was wearing a pretty black cocktail dress which was set off at the neck with a sparkling silver necklace. Her face was carefully made up and the scent of perfume wafted from her neck and hair.

"Suprise," she said in a scared whisper, still extremely worried by what he was going to say.

Mycroft fixed his eyes on Molly, still overwhelmed by everything she had done.

Why?" He eventually managed to say, gesturing a hand around the room.

Molly's eyes seemed to plead with him, hoping he would understand.

"I just wanted to give you a treat," she stammered, "I love this sort of thing and don't have anyone to do it for. I just thought it would be nice to do it for you".

She stepped aside to reveal an ice bucket which was standing behind her, a bottle of champagne chilling amongst the ice cubes. Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Champagne?" He queried.

Molly smiled and blushed.

"It's a drink for two people isn't it?" She explained, "I love it, but can never have it. I've got no one to share it with".

Mycroft's heart seemed to swell and fill his chest as he saw Molly's large eyes begin to glisten, tears forming and threatening to spill down her cheeks. He finally gave her the reaction she had been hoping for; he smiled kindly and sincerely in her direction.

"Thank you," he said softly, "I honestly don't know what to say. You've done so much. It's just extraordinary".

"That's all you needed to say," Molly whispered, her voice quivering with joy and relief.

They moved towards each other, Molly quickly swiping away the tears brimming in her eyes before Mycroft took her in his arms, a deep and lingering kiss bringing them together. They kissed each other again and again, grateful once again that the loneliness of the evening had been extinguished.


	7. Chapter 7

dearest reader!

this has been such a slow update and for that I apologise, I had many possible routes to take this story and did not want to continue until I was entirely happy with where I wanted to go. To those of you following this story, thank you so much for you patience, and I really hope this update gives you some enjoyment. As ever, any little review you can leave me, even the tiniest comment, is received with tremendous gratitude. Knowing what people think of my work means the work.

I really hope you enjoy :)

* * *

The rest of Mycroft's week passed like a dream, as if he had stepped into some sort of parallel life lived by another. He had spent every night at Molly's flat, only returning to his own home briefly in the mornings for clean clothes before going to the office. Every day he had gone through the same internal battle: he would go to work, telling himself firmly that the previous night had been the last time and he would not sleep with Molly again. But once the evening grew closer and the prospect of a lonely, cold evening alone was on the horizon, an inevitable sweet and warm text message from Molly would appear on his phone, and he found himself unable to resist going once again to her flat.

Mycroft knew he was allowing himself to become dangerously involved, but he could not quite sum up the willpower to do what he knew he had to, and break the blossoming relationship. Being with Molly was so easy and comfortable, there was no formality and nothing to worry too much about. He also could not deny the fact that despite his many fears, the sex they had shared had been truly incredible. In all of Mycroft's mostly chaste and fairly asexual life, he had never known such powerful feelings were possible. Molly had managed on more than one occasion to bring him to the brink of ecstasy, leaving him panting and exhausted and desperate for more. Although he was still hampered significantly by his own self-consciousness and lack of confidence, Molly's patience and understanding had helped significantly.

As Mycroft lay next to Molly's sleeping body, her breath rasping slightly in the silence of the dimness of the pre-dawn night, he only had one major worry on his mind. Over the past few nights, he had become more acutely aware that when they were in bed together, it was still Molly who was leading the way, going out of her way to pleasure him in every way possible. Mycroft was starting to feel concerned that he had still not managed to pluck up enough confidence to attempt to return the favour. It was certainly not out of selfishness that he was not trying to do anything for her benefit, but Mycroft was still convinced that his lack of experience was too much of a hinderance. As he lay there looking at her, he felt utterly intimidated as he contemplated what he could try to do to make her feel as good as she had made him feel.

Molly stirred suddenly and shifted onto her back, her eyelids fluttering slightly. She caught a glimpse of Mycroft, awake and watching her, and she slowly opened her eyes fully, smiling lazily.

"Hello there, watching me sleep are you?" She whispered, giving her neck a stretch.

Mycroft smiled.

"Something like that".

Molly blinked and cleared the bleariness from her eyes.

"Are you ok?" She asked.

"Yes, yes, fine," replied Mycroft hastily.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing at all".

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Just thinking".

"What about?"

"Oh, nothing".

Molly was not fooled, it was quite clear there was something on Mycroft's mind. She plumped the pillow behind her head slightly so she could prop herself up, and narrowed her eyes as she surveyed him.

"Come on, I can see there is something on your mind, what's up?" She asked quizzically.

Mycroft hesitated. Revealing his private fears and worries was most certainly not something he was accustomed to. But he also knew that it was going to be increasingly difficult to enjoy his time with Molly with these concerns on his mind. And surely, after the intimacies they had shared so far, it was only appropriate that this was something to discuss?

Mycroft took a deep breath and looked away slightly in order to avoid Molly's eyes.

"These last few nights have been really wonderful," he began nervously, "but I'm sure you've noticed that, er, I have not really done much to meet your needs if you understand what I mean".

Molly did not reply, but gave a gentle, understanding nod.

"I want you to know that this is not because I do not want to. But...I'm just not really sure what to do or what you like. It's not the sort of thing I've ever really understood".

"I see," said Molly seriously, a grave look in her eyes, "so you were never given lessons or instructions about what girls like? You've got no notes or anything to reference?"

"Er, sorry, pardon?" Said Mycroft, utterly confused by her answer.

Molly's serious face broke into a grin and she gave a relaxed laugh.

"I'm joking you idiot! Can't you see the point I'm trying to make?"

Mycroft flushed with embarrassment.

"Oh, so you were just laughing at my stupidity, thank you for that," he said, his cheeks burning and his feelings hurt.

Molly stopped laughing and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"No Mycroft," she said, both serious and kind once again, "you've missed my point. I was not laughing at you. I'm just trying to make you see that no one ever gets taught or told how to have sex with someone or how to make them feel good. This is not something you can study and learn!"

"So how does that help me?" Mycroft said, still feeling slightly irritable although the burning in his face had begun to subside.

"Mycroft," Molly said, shifting herself so that she could look at his properly, "how do you think I found out what you like? How did I work out what turned you on? What you enjoyed and what gave you pleasure?"

Mycroft stopped to consider this point. It was a good question.

"Well I hope you do not think this sounds rude," he said after a few moments of contemplation, "but I would have to say that you are presumably more experienced than myself when it comes to physical relationships".

Molly smiled ruefully.

"Whether that is true or not is besides the point," she continued, "so I'll tell you the big secret as to how I knew what you liked. I just tried what felt nice and and waited to see how you responded! So that is all you need to do. This is nothing to do with your experience or what you know or how confident you feel. It's very simple. Just try what you think, pay close attention to how the girl you are with responds, and let that guide you".

Mycroft drank in these words, relief flooding over him as he considered what Molly had said. So he was not at a disadvantage at all, he simply needed the courage to try.

"So that's all I need to do?" He asked, still feeling the need for reassurance, "just experiment and see what you think?"

Molly smiled, pleased to have calmed his fear.

"That is absolutely it," she said, "so why don't we try right now if you are in the mood to give things a go?"

With that, Molly clasped her hands around the back of Mycroft's neck and kissed him deeply, probing his tongue encouragingly with hers. Mycroft returned her kiss enthusiastically, his body shuddering slightly as excitement pounded through his veins. He felt a surge of confidence like he had never experienced before; he felt bold and daring, finally able to dare to try what he had wanted to do.

His fingers shaking slightly, Mycroft slipped his hand onto Molly's inner thigh, caressing and gently squeezing the flesh as they continued to kiss. She responded by shifting and parting her legs slightly, her flesh seeming to send a message to his hand to continue its exploration. Slowly, not wanting to rush, Mycroft allowed his hand to begin creeping higher, his fingers caressing and stroking gently as he travelled carefully up the inside of Molly's leg. As he edged daringly close to the top, she began to kiss him harder, digging her fingers into the back of his neck, willing him to keep going. Mycroft could hardly dare to believe what he was doing when his finger-tips finally brushed against the warm, damp female flesh between her thighs. She gasped into his mouth as the contact was made and his body once more shivered with excitement. Oh God, it was better, so much better, than he had ever imagined.

He stroked gently again, carefully parting the flesh to her entrance, sliding his finger in slowly as soon as he had found it. Mycroft realised at this moment exactly what Molly had meant by simply tuning himself in to the responses of the person he was touching. Molly moaned loudly as his finger entered her, the hot passage around his digit clenching and throbbing. Mycroft closed his eyes and concentrated hard on every sensation, he never wanted to forget this glorious feeling. Emboldened now, he carefully inserted a second finger, delving slightly deeper inside her as he pushed. This time she actually bit down on his neck, the fingers pressing into his neck now becoming almost painful. She arched her back and pressed her entire body against his, grinding herself gently against his exploring digits.

Into the midst of this heady, erotic atmosphere, the shrill ring of Mycroft's mobile suddenly erupted from where it lay on the bedside table. They both jumped violently at the unwelcome interruption, Mycroft coming to his senses quickly enough to answer the call before three rings had completed.

"Yes?" He barked into the phone, unnecessarily loudly and with slight aggression, hoping the caller did not notice he was out of breath.

"I'm sorry sir, but as we were predicting but hoping to avoid, it has happened again," came Anthea's calm voice.

So befuddled was Mycroft's brain by the electric atmosphere of the bedroom that he momentarily had no idea what she was talking about.

"Sorry?" He asked, straining to force his brain to think logically, which was not easy when all he could focus upon was the sensation of Molly's naked body lying beneath his and his aching erection that was desperate for release.

"Another assassination, sir," Anthea explained slowly. "It has been seven days since the last one, and unfortunately the threat that we would see one assassination per week has been carried out again. The Health Minister is dead".

"Jesus" muttered Mycroft, his mind finally beginning to focus as this news sunk in.

"The car is on its way sir, should be outside within ten minutes," Anthea said.

"No!" Exclaimed Mycroft suddenly, causing Molly to jump.

Anthea remained silent on the other end of the phone. Mycroft could picture her, wondering what on earth was wrong with her normally calm and glacial boss.

"I mean, you see, well..."Mycroft stammered vaguely, trying to come up with a convincing explanation, "I'm not actually at home tonight".

There was silence once again at the end of the phone as Anthea processed this information. Mycroft wondered to what extent her curiosity was now on alert.

"Would you prefer to be picked up somewhere else, sir?" She finally asked.

"No, thank you Anthea," Mycroft replied hastily, "I'm not actually far from the office. I'll make my own way in. I will see you shortly".

Mycroft ended the call and glanced down at Molly, the worried expression on her face indicating that she had heard every word.

"I'm going to have to go, I'm sorry about this," he said apologetically.

"Don't worry," Molly replied, "I'm sure I'll be getting a call any moment to go to the morgue, we better get dressed".

Mycroft climbed out of bed, covering himself with a nearby towel as the covers fell away. He still was not quite as comfortable as Molly was with wandering around the bedroom naked.

"Do you mind if I use your bathroom? I really have not got time to go home?" He asked.

"Of course," Molly smiled as she brushed her hair. Her own phone had just buzzed with a text message, presumably an order to come in to work. "Use anything you need, I'll jump in the shower after you".

Mycroft washed himself quicker than he had ever done before, helping himself to Molly's soap as instructed. He was anxious to get to the office, not only to sort yet another major crises, but to dampen any curiosity Anthea might be feeling about his current whereabouts. He did not like the thought of her pondering what he had been up to.

When he was ready, Mycroft returned to the bedroom to find Molly smoothing out a crisp white shirt that was hanging on the back of the door. He frowned at it.

"Is that mine?" He asked, as he began to pull the rest of his clothes on quickly.

Molly blushed.

"You left it here the other night," she explained. "I was doing some washing and just thought it would be nice to get it ready for you".

Molly did not wait to see his reaction, but scuttled quickly into the bathroom to get ready herself. Mycroft pulled on the fresh shirt, feeling both touched and oddly uneasy. Molly's desperation to have a domestic companion to care for was becoming more obvious by the minute.

Mycroft had little time left to dwell on his personal problems, it was the concerns of an entire nation that now weighed down heavily on his shoulders. He decided to head straight for the mortuary to save time, and sent a text message to Anthea to ask her to meet him there. He also sent the necessary message to Sherlock, ordering him to attend the mortuary as a matter of urgency. He knew that Molly was also shortly due to arrive, but they made separate travel arrangements. Arriving at the mortuary together in the early hours of the morning would arouse the suspicions of even the most slow-witted of people.

Mycroft entered the mortuary to find Anthea waiting for him in the reception area. She smiled briefly at him as she stood, her eyes only momentarily flickering away from her mobile phone.

"Sorry for the slight confusion this morning," explained Mycroft hurriedly, "I ran into an old university friend last night and we were having drinks. Ended up staying in his spare room which is why I was not at home".

Anthea did not reply and Mycroft was grateful for her feigned lack of interest. He knew that Anthea always enjoyed a gossip with the other girls who worked in adjoining offices and was most likely desperate to know exactly what he had been doing. However, she was also a consummate professional and utterly loyal to him alone, and for that reason would never pry when it was quite clearly not her place. So she pretended to have no inclination at all regarding his activities from the night before and he likewise felt no desire to confide in her.

"The body is through here," was all Anthea replied in her cool tones, "your brother is already present, plus he has others with him".

"Others?" Snapped Mycroft, his senses alerted by this unwelcome news.

Mycroft burst through the doors into the mortuary and surveyed all those present, displeased to see more people than he would have liked. Sherlock was there, bent over the body, his eyes studying the corpse and paying no attention to the fact that someone had just entered the room. John was there, watching the examination from a distance, and he raised a weary hand in Mycroft's direction by way of greeting when he saw him. Also standing nearby was Greg Lestrade, a detective from Scotland Yard, wearing the sheepish expression of somebody who was not entirely sure if they were supposed to be present. The sight that warmed Mycroft's heart the most was that of Molly, looking slightly flustered from having rushed into work, her cheeks reddening slightly as she caught Mycroft's eye. Had it only been merely a few hours before that they had been caressing each other in bed?

"Why have you dragged so many people here, Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded irritably, annoyed at his younger brother seemingly trying to take over his investigation.

"Believe me Mycroft, not all of us want to be here," muttered John wearily from the sidelines, Lestrade nodding unenthusiastically standing next to him.

"You seem to be rather slack this morning Mycroft, so I thought my team and I would get a head start!" Replied Sherlock, his cheerful excitement grating on Mycroft's nerves even more than usual.

Sherlock looked up from his work, grinning annoyingly at his brother before the smile was replaced with a look of astonishment. Everybody in the room stared quizzically at Mycroft, curious as to what had grabbed Sherlock's interest. Mycroft felt his temper, normally so controlled, beginning to prickle angrily beneath the surface.

Sherlock abandoned all interest in the body in front of him and walked slowly towards his brother, his eyes studying him in fascination.

"Well well dear brother," Sherlock said, his voice sounding awestruck, "I would never have thought it of you".

"Oh for God's sake Sherlock," snapped Mycroft angrily, his annoyance starting to get the better of him, "stop studying me like one of your specimens and concentrate on why you are here!"

But Sherlock no longer had any interest in the body he was examining. He marched directly up to Mycroft, standing barely inches from his face and inhaled deeply. The look on his face was one of mischievous delight.

"So then," he asked, his eyes twinkling excitedly, "what's her name?"

Mycroft's stomach seemed to freeze in the depth of his body. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Molly's face drop to the floor, a warm glow beginning to blaze in her face.

"What exactly are you talking about Sherlock?" Asked Mycroft, making every effort to sound supremely bored, hoping that this covered the internal panic beginning to unfold within him.

"I'm talking about whoever your mystery woman is, Mycroft," replied Sherlock, his eyes blazing defiantly as he refused to be silenced, "it's fairly obvious to everyone here you've spent the night with a woman. In fact it is so obvious, it is ridiculous that you honestly thought we would not notice".

There was an embarrassed silence in the room. Lestrade was looking around the room, keen to focus on anything except the confrontation unfolding before his eyes. Anthea was biting her lip, glaring defiantly at Sherlock as he dared to insult her boss. John's gaze was bouncing between Sherlock and Mycroft, a mixture of exasperation and sympathy on his face. Molly was not looking at anybody; Mycroft noticed she was blinking hard, probably trying to stop tears springing from her eyes. He glared furiously at his brother, his fists clenching and his arms shaking slightly.

"So how do I know?" Continued Sherlock, either oblivious or unconcerned by the awkward atmosphere surrounding him, "well, you are positively dripping in a woman's bathroom products. I can smell woman's soap, woman's toothpaste and a woman's deodorant. Your shirt has been washed using liquid tablets scented with jasmine and honeysuckle, a rather feminine choice and certainly not your usual. You've got a slight bruise on your collarbone, looks like the mark of teeth, so perhaps your lady friend has been a bit rough and bitten you. Now, next thing we see..."

"Just shut up Sherlock!" Mycroft suddenly exploded, his raised voice making everybody jump, "just shut your mouth for once in your life and mind your own business!"

There was a shocked silence in the room, nobody could quite believe what had happened. Arguably the most stunned person of all was Sherlock who stared open-mouthed at his brother. He had never seen Mycroft lose his temper and it had rendered even he lost for words. Mycroft's whole body was shaking with fury, his cheeks blazing with anger. He had never felt so humiliated in his life, his own brother spilling all his secrets for everybody to hear.

"Well," said Sherlock finally, having recovered himself from the shock, "she's really affected you badly, hasn't she? So come on, what's her name?"

Mycroft could not take anymore. Turning on his heel he stormed out of the mortuary, not looking back and refusing to even glance at any of the staring faces that watched him leave.

The tense atmosphere in the morgue was finally broken.

"Nice one, Sherlock. That was really nice".

Sherlock spun around in amazement, hardly believing that these words were spoken by John.

"What have I done wrong?" Sherlock demanded angrily, "he's the one being aggressive and losing his temper!"

John did not answer but pulled on his jacket angrily, throwing Sherlock a look of deepest disgust as his walked towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

John replied furiously, his voice shaking with anger.

"Unlike you, Sherlock, I'm not going to be nosey or pry or try to embarrass anybody. What I'm going to do is try to be a friend".


	8. Chapter 8

Thanks as always to everybody who has been following this story, and I apologise again for updating so slowly. I've been mentally writing this chapter for weeks, but just struggling to find time to actually type it!

please, please review if you have a minute, it means a lot to know what people think. Thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope you enjoy :)

* * *

Mycroft went straight to his office and actioned everything he needed to as swiftly as possible. He was barely even conscious of what he was doing, his mind and body on autopilot. Anthea joined him shortly after he arrived but neither spoke of the embarrassing confrontation with Sherlock. It was clear from Mycroft's stoney expression that he had no interest in any conversation. It was lunchtime by the time Mycroft has done everything he needed to do and for the first time in his entire working life, he decided to go home early. Mycroft noticed Anthea's concerned expression when he informed her he was leaving the office, but he did not have the energy or inclination to explain his actions. All he wanted at this particular moment was to be alone.

Mycroft arrived at his handsome townhouse in the early afternoon. Without even bothering to remove his coat or shoes, he slumped himself into the sofa. He felt deeply depressed, in the space of a few weeks his life seemed to have spun entirely out of control. He was pursuing a passionate and yet doomed relationship with a woman he knew he should not be so enraptured with, ignoring his own self-imposed rules about personal involvement. He was facing the biggest political crisis of his life and had not the first clue how to stop Moriarty wiping out the entire British government. On top of this, his relationship with Sherlock had probably never been more strained or tense as it was at present, at a time when Mycroft really needed the support of the people around him. Somehow, Mycroft's tidy and ordered life was collapsing around him.

The only thing Mycroft knew for certain was that he was in no frame of mind to try and tackle his problems today. He was tired, tense and extremely irritable. Heaving himself off the sofa, Mycroft walked over to his wine rack and listlessly chose a bottle of deep red wine, not particularly bothered by its unique description. He shrugged of his coat and selected himself a glass, filling it to a truly decadent level for such an early hour of the day. But Mycroft did not care; maybe tomorrow he would think logically and try and restore some order to his life, but right now all he wanted was to blot everything out.

Mycroft slumped down back onto the sofa and took a long, deep gulp from his glass. He stared at the now half empty glass, the sight of the alcohol making him feel even worse. Had it really come to this, drinking at lunchtime with the sole purpose of getting drunk, as a method of solving his problems? Mycroft sighed heavily, feelings of self-loathing piling on top of all the other troubled sensations running through his aching head. He finished the remainder of the glass of wine in one go, and refilled it without even thinking. Already the alcohol was having the effect he wanted, rushing straight to his head with a vaguely pleasant buzzing sensation, his stiff and tense limbs starting to relax as the wine took hold. Screw the hangover, he thought, and damn the consequences, he just needed to forget everything and pretend none of it had ever happened.

Mycroft pulled his mobile out of his pocket and decided to take the unprecedented step of switching it off. As his finger hovered over the power switch, he could not help but notice all his notifications. 7 text messages, 13 emails, 5 voicemails. He felt a huge surge of irritation rise up in his stomach; he was so sick of all these people and everything they expected from him. Just for this one afternoon, he could not face any of them.

Mycroft finished his second glass of wine, barely tasting the liquid, and lay his head back down onto the arm of the sofa so that he could stare up at the white ceiling. He suddenly realised how exhausted he was, physically and mentally. The room was starting to spin very gently around him in an almost hypnotic manner. Mycroft leaned over to the coffee table and from his laying position, clumsily poured himself a third glass of wine, guiltily aware of the fact that the bottle was close to empty. He decided that maybe he should wait a little bit before downing that glass as well. He returned to staring at the ceiling, allowing his heavy eyelids to momentarily close over his dry sore eyes. Maybe it would be sensible to have a short rest, the tiredness was exacerbating his irritability.

Mycroft closed his eyes again, but this time did not open them. His alcohol-befuddled brain thought vaguely of Molly, wondering how she was feeling at the moment. Was she as angry at Sherlock as he was? Mycroft shifted from his back onto his side and forced the image out of his mind. He did not want to think about Molly or Sherlock or anything.

It did not take Mycroft long to fall into a light fitful sleep, punctuated by waking up at regular intervals and shifting around uncomfortably on the sofa. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that it would be much more sensible to retire to his bedroom and nap properly, but he simply could not be bothered to move. At one point, he had the distinct feeling that he was dreaming, before realising that the loud noise he could hear was actually real.

Mycroft lifted his head up from the sofa and finally worked out that his front door bell was ringing. He squinted at the clock on his mantelpiece to see that it was 5.18pm. Mycroft sat up with a jolt, mentally chastising himself for spending so long idle on the sofa. His neck felt cramped from his awkward lying position and his lower back ached. There was a nasty sour taste of wine in his dry mouth and his headache was now worse. So much for a restful afternoon at home, thought Mycroft, as he staggered gingerly to the door.

Mycroft was not quite sure who he had been expecting to see ringing his doorbell, but he was certainly surprised to see John standing there. John smiled broadly as Mycroft opened to door, noticing immediately his slightly crumpled and weary appearance.

"Hello, Mycroft, I tried phoning but your mobile was going straight to voicemail," John explained cheerfully.

"I turned it off," Mycroft replied listlessly. He was not yet sure why John was here and was not entirely in the mood to see him either.

"So is it ok if I come in?" Asked John.

Mycroft was silent for a moment, wondering how to phrase his response.

"I do not mean to be rude, John," Mycroft said with a sigh, "but to be honest I would rather be alone this afternoon. I've got quite a lot to do."

John narrowed his eyes and cast a thoughtful glance over Mycroft's face, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes and the red wine stains on his lips. He felt a surge of sympathy for the man in front of him.

"Come on, Mycroft," John said gently, "a bit of time away from work for a chat would probably do you good."

Mycroft did not reply, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the thought of John wanting to have a "chat", as he put it. That could only mean discussing what had happened this morning.

"Why don't we go to the pub?" John suggested, "that one on the corner? Just one drink and then I'll leave you to get on with whatever you are doing."

Mycroft was not sure if more drinking was a good idea, but the weariness was starting to set in again and he could not raise enough energy to argue.

"Ok fine, if you really insist," Mycroft replied sullenly, aware that his unenthusiastic response sounded very ungrateful.

John gave him a look of mock sternness, but smiled at the same time.

"Are you ready or do you need anything first?" John asked.

"One minute," muttered Mycroft, returning to the house and leaving John waiting on the doorstep. Mycroft picked up his coat and phone before stopping at the bathroom. He frowned at his own appearance as he glanced in the mirror and quickly straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair. He brushed his teeth to remove the unpleasant taste of stale wine, and splashed a little cold water on his face.

Mycroft returned to John at the front door, still feeling depressed but much better after freshening up. They walked down the road together, John making polite and cheerful conversation, Mycroft not really listening and giving minimal responses.

They entered the pub and Mycroft watched John ordering from the bar as he found them a table. Mycroft felt guilty as he realised what a morose and unresponsive companion he was being. John was clearly here out of concern and kindness; Mycroft made a mental note to try and make a greater effort to be friendly.

John returned to the table with the drinks, lager for himself and a whiskey for Mycroft.

"Thank you, John," said Mycroft as he sipped his drink, saying it with sincerity this time. Perhaps this trip to the pub was a good idea after all, certainly better than continuing the evening alone and getting drunk on the sofa.

"My pleasure," replied John, raising his glass towards Mycroft.

They drank in silence for a moment, before John began to tell Mycroft about an interesting incident at work. Mycroft listened and responded in the correct places, acutely aware that both of them were avoiding the obvious topic of conversation. Mycroft was sure it would not be long before John tackled the real reason he was here.

It was after getting a second round of drinks that John finally broached the subject that was on both of their minds.

"So," John began delicately, focusing his eyes on the rim of his glass, "have you spoken to Sherlock since is morning?"

Mycroft did not say anything but continued instead to sip at his drink. He knew this conversation had been looming, but he was not sure if he wanted it to progress any further .

John suddenly leant forward, looking Mycroft in the eyes, his expression concerned and earnest.

"Sherlock did not ask me to come here, Mycroft," John explained patiently, "I came because I was worried about you."

"There really is no need to concern yourself," Mycroft replied curtly.

"Well in my opinion, I actually think you need a friend right now," replied John.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows cynically.

"Look, Mycroft," John said, "your brother is incredible, easily the most intelligent man I've ever known. But when it comes to personal problems, it's a different matter. Let's be honest, he is crap."

In spite of himself, Mycroft could not help but smile slightly at this description. John continued, encouraged by his response.

"I've always thought there is absolutely nothing I could ever do to help you that Sherlock could not do," John explained, "but this morning I realised I was wrong. I may not be as clever as him, but I do understand some things that he does not. Things like relationships and people and feelings. And I'm not trying to interfere with your private life Mycroft, but you look like a man who could do with my sort of help."

Mycroft felt touched by John's words. And maybe he was correct. Mycroft felt hopelessly out of his depth in the mess he had found himself in and did not know where to turn.

A few moments of silence passed as each man contemplated what to say next.

"So how long have you been seeing her?" Asked John, watching Mycroft's face closely, fully expecting him to start lying.

Mycroft debated with himself silently, wondering how much he should confide in John.

"Not very long," he finally replied, "just a few weeks."

John nodded, privately shocked that Sherlock's suspicions had proven to be correct. Deep down, John had never really believed it was possible that Mycroft had begun a relationship. It seemed so incredibly unlikely.

"And how is it going?" John asked, "do you like her? Are you both happy?"

Mycroft gave a maddeningly vague nod. John felt the tiniest twinge of impatience; Mycroft was certainly making this conversation hard work.

"Have you slept with her yet?" John probed, purposely asking a provocative question to try and force Mycroft to react.

Mycroft's cheeks flushed and his face darkened with annoyance.

"That's a rather personal question, do you not think?" He said sternly.

"Come on Mycroft, we're both adults aren't we?" John pressed on, "I'm not asking for all the intimate details. I just wondered if you are having sex with this woman."

Mycroft did not answer, but the rising colour in his cheeks told John what he needed to know.

"So what is the problem?" John asked. "You're seeing a woman and you like her. Why do you seem so stressed about it?"

Mycroft was staring so hard at his glass that his eyes were losing focus. He was so lost in his trance-like state that he answered the question before considering his answer.

"The problem is that I think I might be falling in love with her," Mycroft said softly, talking more to himself now rather than John.

John's eyes widened in surprise. He had not expected this.

"Wow!" He responded, "that's really great, isn't it?"

Mycroft shook his head slowly.

"No it is not," he replied heavily, "it means I need to stop seeing her as soon as possible. And doing that is going to be the hardest thing I've ever done."

John frowned in confusion.

"But why?" He asked, "if you care about her that much, why can't you just keep seeing her and be happy?"

"Because…" Mycroft began, pausing to consider his words. The pause extended into silence. Mycroft finally looked up from his glass and met John's questioning eyes.

"Because caring is not an advantage," he finally concluded.

John gave Mycroft a quizzical look.

"Mycroft, I really do not understand what you are talking about," John said gently.

"And neither will she," Mycroft said sadly. He suddenly decided that this had gone far enough. He had divulged far more than he intended.

"I need to go John, I'm sorry," Mycroft said hurriedly, getting up from his seat briskly before John could stop him, "thank you for the drink, but I need to be at home now."

With those words, Mycroft walked briskly away, not turning back to glance as he left the pub. John opened his mouth to call after him but stopped himself. He was not sure he had managed to help Mycroft in any way, but it was also evident that Mycroft was not going to confide anything more tonight.

Mycroft walked home quickly, his eyes on the pavement, the air now cool and refreshing due to a light and filmy rain. His face and hair were lightly coated with droplets when he reached his front door. He inserted the key into the front door, before a slight movement in the front garden caught his eye. He turned to see what had caught his attention, and jumped violently when he realised there was a figure standing in the shadows.

"I've been waiting for you, I was hoping you would not be too long," the shadowy figure said as they stepped forward.

It was Molly, her face as pretty as ever but clearly strained with worry. He eyes searched his face, silently seeking reassurance that he was alright. Mycroft stared back at her, the tiny droplets of rain clinging to her hair glinting and catching the final glimmers of the evening light. Mycroft stepped closer to her. There was so much he needed to say to her, and so many things he wanted to explain if he was to avoid hurting her. He looked down into her face, a face that was begging him to hold her close. Mycroft knew what he needed to do and the longer he put it off, the more difficult it was going to be.

He looked into her eyes. Not tonight. Maybe he would say it tomorrow. But not tonight.


End file.
